


Cinnamon Muffins

by b00mgh



Category: South Park
Genre: (probly), Abuse, Abusive Parents, Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - High School, Clyde Donovan Thinks He is the Mom Friend, Clyde Donovan is Just a Large Puppy, Craig Tucker Being An Asshole, Craig Tucker is Depressed, Craig Tucker is secretly a softie, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eric Cartman Being Eric Cartman, Everyone Is Gay, F/F, F/M, Homeless Craig Tucker, Homelessness, Hurt/Comfort, Kenny McCormick Does Not Have Health Insurance, Leopold "Butters" Stotch is Trying Not to Revert to His Evil Alter Ego, M/M, Meta Kenny McCormick, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, So incredibly flamboyantly gay, Token Black is an Only Child, Token Black is the Mom Friend, Tweek Tweak could beat your ass, Tweek Tweak has anxiety, Tweek Tweak is a Good Friend, and it shows, but he doesnt always mean to, but he wont <3
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:34:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 37,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28498377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/b00mgh/pseuds/b00mgh
Summary: Craig doesn’t want Tweek to look at him the way everyone else looks at him. Tweek who tried to make Craig a peanut-butter and honey sandwich for lunch, with baby carrots in a tupperware container– Tweek who has a voice like a beehive, low and bumbling and anxious and filled with honey– Tweek who is sitting on the front porch with the porchlight on trying to figure out logorithms and failing miserably because he’s too distracted waiting to see Craig when he gets home– Tweek whose whole face falls at the sight of Craig coming home covered in bruises and blood, and suddenly Craig feels the cold and realizes he’s just wearing a flannel and jeans and his hat is almost falling off and he shivers.When you’re about to get your shit kicked in by a guy in steeltoe boots, you don’t have time to think about what you’re feeling for a boy with a voice like a beehive.ORWinter Break in South Park, Colorado is about to get a whole lot more interesting for Tweek Tweak, Craig Tucker, Token Black, Clyde Donovan, Kenny McCormick, Butters Stotch, and the whole rest of South Park High School when Tweek finds Craig sleeping under a bridge on Thursday night.(Updates every Friday!)
Relationships: Craig Tucker/Tweek Tweak, Karen McCormick/Tricia Tucker, Kenny McCormick/Leopold "Butters" Stotch
Comments: 143
Kudos: 124





	1. It’s Cold on Thursday Night, December 10

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Forgive Me For All the Damage Done](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7903345) by [RiddlePanda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiddlePanda/pseuds/RiddlePanda). 



> This work's premise is inspired by the fanfuckingtastic "Forgive Me For All the Damage Done" by RiddlePanda, but it's gotten out of hand and is now entirely different aside from, like, the first two chapters lmao, enjoy (and go give RiddlePanda some love too!! <3)

It’s cold. Craig can’t even find his hat. Maybe it’s lost somewhere in the sleeping bag with his other clothes, maybe it fell off when he dragged himself out from under the bridge to look at the stars. His ears are freezing, and the sweat matting his hair to his forehead isn’t helping. Despite the sweat, he’s still shivering– it’s dark and probably below freezing, if the clouds of fog that puff away to count his breaths are any judge. He just wants his hat. He just wants to be warm.

Craig should have accepted Clyde’s fucking jacket at lunch. Clyde wouldn’t have asked for it back. Even if he’d wanted it back, Clyde would have just laughed and bothered Token for his coat and joked that Token’s rich enough to buy another coat  _ unlike us poor, poor peasant folk _ . 

The joke is much funnier at ass o’clock at night (Craig doesn’t know what time exactly because his phone died and there’s no charger to plug it in, but it’s dark and has been for a while) in the freezing cold, curled up tight in a sleeping bag filled with all of Craig’s gross-smelling clothes, trying to keep warm under the igniting winter wind that’s promising to turn the wisps of clouds that had only dusted the moon before into a real star-darkening storm. Craig laughs, and it echoes around the underbelly of the bridge before being carried away on that pre-storm wind. 

Another shiver lights up every nerve on Craig’s skin, and all the ones under the skin too– if there are any there. He’s not sure that there is. Token would know. Craig could text him and ask if his phone wasn’t dead or if there was an electrical outlet under the bridge on Clearwater street or if he had money to replace the charging cord that broke when some Sophomore in his history class stepped on it. Token would be able to explain the whole thing about nerves and where they are and aren’t very clearly, very concisely, and then he would tell Craig and Clyde to go to bed if they don’t want to get sick. 

That’s what he said to Craig, last time Craig slept at his house. It was snowing, so Craig said they should all hang out at Token’s, and Clyde had been more excited than anyone else so he didn’t have to sell it too much. Token had told Craig then that Craig didn’t look so good– “your face is kinda red, dude. Do you want my mom to check on it? Give you something OTC?” Craig can’t remember what OTC means right now, but he had known at the time and he had said no, don’t worry about it, I’ll be fine. Because Craig Tucker only had $32 to his name when he set up his sleeping bag under the bridge four weeks ago and that ran out quick because he’s a fucking idiot. He couldn’t afford medicine for a cold, OTC or otherwise. 

It’s been a week or so now, though, and the cold has only gotten worse. Yesterday, even Kenny McCormick had said he looked like shit when he was vomiting his guts out in the bathroom where he and Kenny usually spent the entirety of third-period English. He’d told Kenny to shut his fucking trap if he didn’t want to get hit. He hadn’t really meant it. Craig’s kinda grateful to Kenny in more ways than he’d like to admit because Kenny takes care of Karen and Karen takes care of Tricia and if Craig dies from this stupid cold then Kenny might end up taking care of both of them. Or maybe the girls would take care of Kenny– they’re getting awfully tough now that they’re in high school. 

Craig is wondering if there’s a god out there that has it out for him specifically and this cold is a punishment. It feels like punishment. And maybe he deserves it. Dad was always reminding Craig that he deserved it– whatever it happened to be. And Mom kept telling Craig to get out of the house more. This is it. His parents were right and Craig was wrong and this cold is the whole universe telling him to go fuck himself. 

And he wants to. 

Craig Fucking Tucker. Craig bum-ass, piece of shit, selfish, worthless,  _ infectious  _ Tucker. 

If he had a rope, he’d string himself up from the rebar poking out from the bridge. If he had a gun, he’d only pay for one bullet. If he had a knife, he’d get his blood flowing one way or another. If he could afford the OTC medicine from Token’s mom, he’d chug the whole bottle like a cup of fucking water at two am. 

But he has none of these things. Just a cinderblock from the nearby parking lot as a combination table-and-chair, a sleeping bag filled with his own clothes, his backpack, and bone-chilling shivers that wrack his frame. 

Oh, and his hat is probably somewhere around here. He really loves that hat.

The stars that had been valiantly battling the clouds for primetime viewership in the sky have grown too tired to try. They all sink behind a thickening veil of darkness that doesn’t waste time with promises before dropping the first stiff ice-breakers of snowflakes onto South Park, Colorado. If Craig ignores how fast the snow is picking up the pace, he can pretend the snowflakes are stars rushing out to meet him. Accepting him. It would feel nice to have someone rush out to meet him. 

Craig loves the stars. He’ll join them someday soon. He’ll blow his brains out or take too much of something or wrap a rope around his neck or maybe even spice it up and slit his veins open, and then he’ll be a star and he’ll float in the sky, millions of millions of miles from the next star over, way too far for anyone from Earth to reach, and nobody will be contaminated by whatever it is in his fucking brain that makes him so awful. He can just be a star and watch Tricia graduate and watch Clyde and Token get amazing careers and watch Kenny get out of this town that treats him like shit and watch Tweek meet someone who doesn’t mind how much he twitches and they’ll all grow old far, far away from Craig. And Craig will finally be fucking happy. 

The day before yesterday, Craig stole someone’s cinnamon muffin off of the counter at Tweak Bros Coffee. He doesn’t even like cinnamon. But he was hungry. Nobody in South Park is hiring, and Craig ran out of money over a week ago. So he had to steal the muffin. Either the cinnamon or the stealing from Tweek genuinely-fucking-good-kid Tweak made Craig so nauseous that he threw up the muffin an hour later, and he hasn’t eaten anything since. But it’s okay– Craig’s not even hungry. He promised Clyde earlier that he wasn’t hungry. Hasn’t been hungry since he threw up the cinnamon muffin. But he still feels bad because Tweek probably had to set out another cinnamon muffin and call the order out again. Tweek is too fucking nice for Craig to infect, so Craig didn’t go back to Tweak Bros Coffee after that, even though he likes to sit in the heated coffee shop and watch Tweek move like a bee in a hive behind the counter.

Craig’s train of thought spins and spins with the snowflakes that are getting lighter and fluffier as the storm picks up. He can’t pretend they’re stars anymore, they’re too big for that, too close when they settle and melt into his burning, shivering skin. If he tries hard enough, the snowflakes can be little wisps of blond hair brushing against him. The fiction is unsustainable because Craig has four classes with Tweek and he jumps every time Craig glances at him. Nobody wants to be friends with the guy who picks fights like flowers. 

His eyes flutter shut as the weight of the snow presses him still. Behind his eyelids, he can see the stars again, in every brilliant color that Craig doesn’t know how to name. 

Maybe this is a punishment. Maybe this is a homecoming. Maybe the snowflake-stars rushing out and landing with quiet kisses on Craig’s sweat-damp face is what it means to go home. He’ll just wake up as a star. 

Great. Now he doesn’t have to find a rope.

He cackles until it shatters into a cough. 

Tweek is taking a walk. His anxiety is pulsing in every heartbeat and keeping him awake, but if he walks far enough and fast enough, he’ll be so exhausted that he can fall asleep by 11:00 and stay asleep until 5:30 and have enough energy tomorrow for his precalc test. Nobody else will be stupid enough to be out and about at 9:36 at night either. Especially not in this cold weather. Great for Tweek’s piece of mind, but not for Mom’s.

Mom had actually advised against Tweek going, but Dad has reminded her, in his roundabout way, about how poorly Tweek slept if he didn’t have his pre-bedtime walk. Tweek’s mother relented on the conditions that she would wait up for him and that Tweek would bring his parka, even though Tweek rarely felt cold enough to need a parka while he was walking– snow or no snow. But he took the parka with him anyway to make Mom happy. 

He’s really glad he did about six minutes into the walk when the snow picks up and up and up until the pretty flutter of fragile flakes becomes the harsh screech of poofy blizzard-spawns. Tweek considers turning around. It’s snowing pretty hard now. And it’s windy. But Tweek will never get to sleep if he turns around now, and he’s got that test tomorrow– he hopes he’s prepared enough. He needs to sleep tonight. So he’ll muddle through. He pulls a fidget toy from his pocket and clicks it a few times to calm down. It’s just a walk. He won’t die just from a walk. Even if it’s freezing cold and snowing in piles. 

A rough cackle echoes from somewhere below the bridge, and then dissembles into a grating bout of coughs.

His heart skips a frozen beat. Maybe he will die just from a walk.

What the fuck was that? Aliens? Again? Zombies? Again? Nazis?  _ Again? _ Some sentient chicken nuggets that all morphed together into one giant McMonster and now have the intent to destroy anyone who doesn’t pledge their life to veganism?  _ Again!? _

No. No. Think about this logically, Tweek. There were no flying saucers, or general town-wide hysteria, or Third Reich flags plastered to the town hall, or chicken-nugget goo dripping into the water supply. None of that at all. Hasn’t been since seventh grade. So nothing to panic about. 

Unless it’s a homeless person with a knife trying to sneak up on Tweek and kill him and rob him and leave his body in a ditch in Ecuador where nobody will ever find it. There is still potential for dying just from a walk. Tweek stretches his fingers to avoid yanking on his hair. Think it through. How can Tweek maintain a sense of control in a situation like this? He can’t think clearly if he doesn’t stay calm. 

Alright. There’s a big stick. He can defend himself with that. He can sneak up on the homeless person with the knife before they sneak up on him. Then he’ll be okay. He can stay calm here. He can. 

So Tweek picks up the big stick and he creeps around the corner, quieter than the snow on the wind. But there’s nobody there.  _ Hallucinations!? _ is Tweek’s knee-jerk, nervous thought, but he can be calm. He knows he can. He’s been practicing being calm and meditating and taking his medication and everything. No. He’s not hallucinating. 

The snow lies peaceful and undisturbed. Nobody has even walked around here since the snow started falling. Under the bridge, when Tweek ventures farther down, is a hat. A blue hat. Wait– Tweek knows this hat. He stares at it every day in Physics. And English. And Precalc. And History. It’s the same blue chullo Craig has had since eighth grade when Token and Clyde got him a new one because the one he wore in elementary school was too small (from four seats back in their eighth-grade homeroom, Tweek had overheard them telling Craig that Token bought the yarn from a really high-end shop so it would last forever and Clyde knitted it together with help from his grandma. It was too big for him then and it always fell in his face, but it fits pretty well now). Why is it half-covered in snow under a bridge? If there is one immutable fact about Craig Tucker, it is his blue chulo framing the organic ebb and flow of bruising on his face. He wouldn’t leave this chullo anywhere.

Did Craig get hit by a bicyclist who thought he was a penguin? Did he get dragged away by manbearpig? No! No. Stay calm, Tweek. He can stay calm. He’s nervous, sure, but Tweek will just grab the chullo and give it to Craig tomorrow. Craig’s probably looking all over for it. It’ll give Tweek a reason to talk to Craig anyway. 

But then there’s another cough.  _ It’s right behind Tweek oh fucking christ he’s gonna die _ . He flinches, but nothing ever makes contact. When he tentatively turns around, nobody is there. But there’s a new patch of color in the snow. The color of Tweek’s wooden dining room table when he spilled cherry-flavored medicine on it that one time. Wait. That’s human skin.  _ There’s a person buried in the snow.  _

Okay, this is getting pretty out-of-control, but Tweek can handle it. He’s not a kid anymore. He’s a grown-ass adult now, and he can– he can– Jesus Fucking Christ that’s  _ Craig Tucker buried in the snow next to a bridge at 9:47 pm. _

Fuck meditation and fuck control and fuck keeping calm Tweek scrambles to unearth Craig like some fucked up hybrid of a dog in a backyard and an archeologist in a tomb. Craig doesn’t look right. His face is too red. He’s shaking so hard that if he and Tweek put wigs on, people would probably get their identities backward. And why is he sweating? Craig never sweats– he’s always complaining about how it’s too cold, even in the summer. Wait, wait, wait. Let’s back up even further: why is Craig in a sleeping bag in the snow with no chullo on at 9:53 pm next to a bridge? 

Tweek has no answers for this.

But Craig is clearly freezing cold. Maybe it’s a dare. Who knows. But Tweek knows he doesn’t look comfortable, so he goes to shake him awake. And then physically recoils because  _ fucking hell, this boy is throwing off heat like he’s got a job as a furnace and four starving children to feed _ . That’s not healthy. Shit. Shit that’s a fever. And he’s not waking up. Isn’t that really bad? Is Craig already dead? Tweek stops panicking, momentarily, when Craig begins trying to cough out words. 

Of course, he’s just reciting the words to “New York, New York,” by Frank Sinatra with the tone-deaf quality of a hungry cat waking you up three hours before your alarm, and after the chorus he can’t be encouraged to respond to Tweek for anything. 

Tweek is beyond panicking now, he’s halfway into an anxiety attack and he decides that Craig needs to get warm enough to stop shivering–  _ is that how you stop a fever?–  _ and he hoists him up with as much of his body strength as he can muster this late at night and begins the dead sprint home to find Mom still waiting by the door with the porch light on. She’s usually asleep by now so she can wake up early to open the shop with Dad, but Tweek has never been happier to have her hovering. 

There is a careful progression of phases that Mom goes through between the time that she can make him out in the thick snow and the time that Tweek reaches the porch, and he can read them all.

  1. Oh, thank goodness, Tweek is home. I was worried.
  2. He’s still not wearing his parka. That boy needs to take better care of himself.
  3. Why does his parka look so much bigger than before?
  4. Tweek is carrying someone who is wearing his parka. I am worried again.
  5. What the fuck kind of circumstance requires Tweek to be carrying a person home at ten pm!?
  6. I trust my son. There must be a good reason for this. I will help him and ask questions later. 



Tweek is extremely grateful that Mom makes this final decision, and that she opens the door for him and pushes him inside and tells Dad to take Craig and walks Tweek through his breathing and settles him down and has given him some hot coffee just as Tweek is lucid enough to drink it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter 1 FINALLY posted >:D and i've got 60k more coming at u on a weekly basis for at least 17 more weeks so welcome, ladies, gents, theydies, gentlethems, and buddies <3 to ur new Friday night friend :DDDD  
> (also lemme know if u got suggestions for titles im struggling lmao)
> 
> love u all!! check me out on tiktok [bmgh.writing] and tumble [bmgh-writing] for more updates <333
> 
> and, as always,   
> Scream at me in the comments, nothing brings me more joy!! :DDDD


	2. Weird, Totally Weird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back by popular demand, Spoilers w/o context:
> 
> Tweek, from the other side of the cafeteria: 0_0  
> Clyde: 0_0  
> Token: 0_0  
> Tweek: alright that's enough socialization for one eternity, i will now return to my cozy bathroom stall
> 
> Craig, angrily: LEAVE ME, FOOL!!!!  
> Martha Tweak, with 0 thoughts in her head: that's nice sweetie im just gonna sit here and do my crosswords  
> Craig, still pissed, thru tears: I SAID LEAVEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Tweek takes a long sip from the steaming mug, not reacting to the temperature even though it must be scalding. It’s decaf– Martha Tweak hates it when her son drinks caffeine before bed. 

“Th-thanks, Mom,” he says softly. 

Martha nods. “Want to tell me why you’re bringing home unconscious boys in the middle of the night?” She’s biting back a frustrated, worried scream because she knows it won’t help.

Tweek nods back. “He wa-was sleep-eeping under the b-bridge by C-C-Clearwater Str-St-Street.” 

Martha is not pleased with how much Tweek is stuttering. He only stutters that bad when he’s panicking. She leans back in her chair and gives Tweek a sympathetic smile and she gives herself a sigh. “Alright, kiddo,” she says, “I’m going to leave the rest of this conversation for tomorrow when you’re more relaxed, but I do want to know what happened.” It won’t help anything to get Tweek all wound-up and scared right before bed. 

“Honey?” Richard Tweak calls from the living room, “This kid’s running a fever. We still have that acetaminophen in the cabinet?” Well, that explains why her son– bleeding heart that he is– sprinted home with him. Now the only question is literally everything else.

“It’s the blue bottle next to the decongestion medicine, dear. Look in the medicine cabinet.” 

“Found it. Thanks, honey.”

Tweek has downed half of that decaf coffee, and Martha decides it’s bedtime now. Her son  _ looks _ as wired as an electric panel at 4 pm on a Tuesday, but she knows he’ll turn off like a circuit breaker the moment his head hits the pillow.

“Alright, Tweek, let’s get you to bed.”

“B-bu-b-but Mom, C-Crai-aig’s–” This is  _ that _ Craig? The one her son can’t shut up about? The one he gave a free cinnamon muffin to the other day?  _ That _ Craig? Martha almost smirks.

“Craig will be fine, kiddo,” Martha reassures him. “Your dad and I will take care of it. You go to sleep so you can be ready for that test tomorrow.” 

She walks Tweek to his room and he kicks his shoes off and falls into bed. Martha had been right about him being like a circuit breaker; he’s already asleep. She tucks his comforter around his shoulders and turns off his lights before going into the hallway to meet Richard. 

“How’s Tweek?”

“Wore himself out panicking. He’s asleep now.”

Richard sighs heavily. He hates when Tweek gets that anxious. It makes him anxious, Martha knows. 

“How’s Craig?” Martha asks.

“Is that  _ Craig _ ?” Richard huffs a bittersweet laugh. “How did Tweek manage to find him?”

Martha shakes her head, telling her husband, “He was too freaked out to say.”

Richard gives a lopsided grimace. “Yeah. The kid’s got that fever I told you about– hotter than a windshield in an Arizona summer– and he’s coughing like he’s trying to give his lungs up for adoption.”

Martha winces a little in sympathy. “You think he needs a doctor?”

“No, I don’t think so, but we can take him to see one tomorrow if that medicine doesn’t kick in.” He looks at Martha dreamily. “You remember when you caught pneumonia, and we had to intubate you for a whole three days?”

“I remember,” Martha replies with a smile, “you brought a stack of books with you and didn’t leave the room once.”

  
  


Tweek wakes up at 5:58 am the next morning, nearly breaking his record amount of consecutive hours slept– sprinting home and having a panic attack while lugging around 163 pounds of human boy will do that to you. 

He does his typical morning routine, brushes his teeth, scrolls mindlessly through apps, takes his medication with a glass of water, does his morning stress-release meditation, throws some clothes on, and it is only when he heads downstairs to get coffee and breakfast that he passes the living room, glances at the pull-out couch, and almost screeches. 

Of course, his medication and meditation are worth their salt, so he does not panic like he did last night. He just stammers his way through half of an explanation before realizing that Craig is still sleeping, and therefore neither hearing Tweek’s explanation nor caring where he is in the first place. He looks better than he did last night though, Tweek remembers that much. He’s not breathing so hard, his face is less red, and he’s not coughing every other breath, for starters. Tweek sees a cold pack that’s fallen off of Craig’s face, and one of those medicated patches that Mom used to put on Tweek’s chest when he got sick and couldn’t stop coughing. He goes to fix the cold pack– that’s probably part of the reason Craig isn’t so red today– but it’s lukewarm and floppy now. The sheets are soggy where the condensation soaked into them. Tweek heads to the kitchen, swaps out the used cold pack for one fresh from the freezer, and heads back to the living room to set it on Craig’s forehead. Tweek can’t control Craig’s physical condition, but he can help improve it. He has steps he can take, things that are in his control. 

Now, breakfast and coffee. There’s a note, as there is every morning, on the counter.

_ Tweek, _

_ Dad is already out at the shop, but Mom is staying home to take care of Craig. Don’t worry, he’s in good hands. When you get home, we want to talk to you about last night. We just want to know what happened, nobody is in trouble. Good luck on your test. We know you’re going to do great. _

_ Love,  _

_ Mom and Dad ♡  _

Alright. See. Nobody is in trouble. Tweek feels a knot of anxiety he hadn’t been fully conscious of evaporating, now that he knows his parents definitely aren’t mad at him. If they were mad, they wouldn’t have put a heart at the end of the note. That’s just science. 

He leaves without really feeling too anxious about Craig– Mom can take care of sick people way better than Tweek can, so he wouldn’t have been much help. It’s only once he’s on the bus that he thinks:  _ Oh, shit, Craig is going to miss the test, _ and  _ Oh, shit, Craig’s clothes are still in the snow by the bridge, _ and  _ Oh, shit, Craig is going to be so confused when he wakes up. _ But he stops the train of thought there. He can’t control those things. He can’t change them, so he can’t fill up his brain with worry about them. Tweek takes several clarifying breaths and fidgets with the sensory cube in his pocket.

What can he do about the situation? He can tell their precalc teacher that Craig is sick, and ask her if Craig can take it another day. He can grab Craig’s clothes on the way home after school today. He can trust that Mom won’t leave Craig hanging. These are the things Tweek can do personally, things he has the agency and capability to do. There’s no need to panic. Nobody is mad at him and there are things he can do to remedy his concerns. 

By the time he’s adequately calmed himself down enough to sit through class, the bus is pulling up to South Park High School, and Tweek gets out of his seat and turns Ella Fitzgerald’s voice down just a bit on his headphones to squeak out a ‘thanks’ to the bus driver and head into class.

Now time for the real challenge of the day: he’s got five classes to sit through, and no blue chullo to stare at. 

Token is not a stupid kid, and neither is Clyde, for the record, but Clyde definitely isn’t sure what the hell Token is talking about at lunch when he says, “Craig isn’t here today.” 

Sure. Yeah. Statement of fact. But he said it in that tone of voice that means that he means something else by it. Clyde blinks at him from across the table to ask him to clarify. “Craig never misses school,” Token explains, “I mean, he ditches English in the second-floor bathroom, but he’s always at school. I don’t know,” he shrugs, “it just doesn’t sit right with me.”

Now Clyde can see the issue. And he agrees with Token’s feeling. “He’s been acting weird for a few weeks. I saw him taking a shower in the locker room after school last week.”

“Did you ask him why?” Token asks.

Frowning, Clyde shakes his head. “You know how he gets when you ask him stuff like that–”

“You mean when you ask him anything.”

“He gets all squirrely. Like defensive, but it’s  _ us _ so he’s trying not to be mad? Ya know?”

“Yeah, Clyde, I know,” Token sighs, “I don’t want to jump to conclusions, but shit’s weird. He got really nervous when I pointed out his cold the other day– practically sprinted out of the house.”

“And yesterday it seemed like he couldn’t even remember where he was.” Clyde’s frown deepens, “he said he wasn’t hungry, but he  _ looked _ hungry.”

“Everyone looks hungry to you, Clyde,” Token says. 

Clyde throws his hands up in a small, exasperated gesture. “I had  _ banana bread _ ,” he cries, “and he said he  _ wasn’t hungry. _ To  **_banana bread_ ** . That doesn’t strike you as near-death behavior?”

“As someone who doesn’t like bananas, no it does not.”

“Hey, isn’t that Tweek Tweak?” Clyde asks, looking behind Token to a head of hair that has gotten no less blonde and no more manageable since elementary school. 

Tweek is staring right at them, occasionally shuffling his feet like he might step towards or away from them, but can’t decide which. He’s muttering to himself, but he always does that. Nobody minds it anymore– even the teachers hardly bring it up unless he’s muttering the answers to a test while they’re taking it (the other kids sitting in the back never tell the teacher if they hear it though, because Tweek’s answers are always right and sometimes a kid needs that A). It’s even weirder to see Tweek at lunch. Everyone knows Tweek disappears at lunch– who knows where to. Still, as ignored and flighty as the phenomenon named Tweek is, he’s hard to ignore when he’s staring right at you with the possible intent to socialize. Very awkwardly. That’s not just a Tweek thing though, that’s a high school thing— Clyde has spoken to Tweek once or twice and the guy stutters, but he’s not painfully awkward or anything. 

“Oh, so it is,” Token acknowledges, “should we invite him to sit with us?” There are four chairs at every table in the cafeteria. Usually, it’s Craig, Token, and Clyde, with one empty chair that is occasionally pulled away to supplement somebody joining another group, but today they have all four, and two are empty. 

They watch him for a minute without making it too obvious they’re watching. Will he come or will he go? He’s an entertaining kid, even if you don’t know him. Always doing something. That’s what Craig always says, anyway. Craig only ever really puts a sentence together once in a while, but half the time he does it’s about Tweek. Clyde is just thinking that he’ll take the jump, make eye contact, and wave Tweek over to sit down with him– for Craig’s sake, if not Tweek’s– but then Tweek decides just a half-second before that he’s got somewhere else to be and he takes his lunch and goes out of Token and Clyde’s view.

“Weird,” Token mutters.

“Totally weird,” Clyde agrees. 

Craig feels too hot, and too cold. But he does have his hat now, so he’s got that going for him. Bone deep shivers are twisting his spine and his blood feels like it’s simmering, letting his muscles cook dry. His chest doesn’t feel like it’ll stab him for not coughing though– nice and cool and empty in there. How pleasantly comfortable, even if the rest of his body isn’t. Is he dead? Is this what happens when you die? Is that why his chest feels so cold and empty? Has his cursed soul left him? Can he begin anew?

Oh. Wait. No. He’s on a bumpy pullout-couch with springs poking through the mattress. That’s one point for alive. 

But where? Craig’s first thought is that someone called the cops, and now he’s back home, but that can’t be it because they don’t have a pullout couch. He remembers because Dad had wanted one when he was twelve and their old couch broke after Craig (“son of a bitch, why does he have to be  _ our _ kid?”) jumped on it and Mom had been dead-set against it. “Why,” she had argued, “so we can have bums couch-surfing in our living room all the time? Not in this house.” Well then, Craig is currently, apparently, a bum, couch-surfing in someone’s living room. But whose? 

Green wallpaper. But that’s not narrowing it down. Everyone has green wallpaper– they figured that out in fifth grade when Stan Marsh’s dad tried to redecorate after Home Depot made that musical, and then the wallpaper just kept turning green and then it came out that it was the ghosts of all the Native Americans that died on the land rearranging the metaphysical properties of the wallpaper to that one ugly shade of green as a type of cruelty-free curse. The couch is clearly unused to use, but that’s not the kind of thing anyone knows about anyone else’s couch. Craig can barely turn his head without feeling like he might break out into coughing, but he turns it anyways to see what he can see, lives with the scraping bout of coughs, and sees nothing that narrows it down any further. 

Footsteps pat-pat-pat down the hallway until Craig sees a tall, broad-shouldered woman with dark blonde hair in the archway to the living room. She looks familiar, but Craig can’t parse where he’s seen her in the jelly-thickness of his stream of consciousness.

“Oh, you’re awake then, Craig?” she says sweetly. It’s not an actual question, and doesn’t require an answer. Craig gives a tiny nod anyways. He feels tempted to flip her off, a gut reflex to unknown situations, but refrains… for now. 

Fucking disrespectful. Can’t even say ‘thank you.’ Fuck you, Craig Tucker.

“Th–”

“Don’t you even worry about it, Craig,” she cuts him off, voice still far-off and a little vague. He nods again. No wonder his parents don’t love him, he thinks– although he’s not exactly certain why he thinks it. “You look confused,” the woman says softly. Craig blinks. He is, but it’s a very general kind of confusion, and between the illness itself and the medicine, he could hardly put together a sentence if he tried. He’s got no clue what she’s talking about, but he  _ is  _ very confused. The woman settles herself in the well-worn loveseat nearby. “Don’t worry, Craig,” she says airily, “I’ll still be here when you wake up.”

Craig croaks, “No.” No way she’s doing that. This lady’s definitely got better things to do than babysit Craig’s stupid, sick, contagious, deadbeat, bum, couch-surfing ass while he sleeps. His voice strains at even the barest use. Saying “Go” is almost too much for his throat to take. She doesn’t move, so he repeats, “ _ go _ .” She doesn’t seem to hear him, but she does leave the room. Craig doesn’t have time to be relieved that he’s not going to be a burden before she comes back with a new ice pack and places it, gently, on his forehead, and readjusts the three layers of blankets. Is that why he’s hot and cold?

Craig falls back asleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im feeling hella demotivated lately,,,, if u have the time/energy, could u put somn in the comments abt like,,, idfk a song/meme/yt video this fic makes u think of? Q~Q pls <333
> 
> but i hope u enjoy this chapter of both craig and tweek having No Clue how tf to communicate their thoughts out loud
> 
> as always, u can find me on tiktok [ bmgh.writing ] and tumble [ bmgh-writing ] for more updates!! <333
> 
> and, ofc,  
> Scream at me in the comments, nothing brings me more joy!! :DDDDD


	3. Tic-Tac-Toe on Friday, December 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers, but I give you no context:
> 
> Tweek, making soup: jfc im fucking this up so bad how do i do this better the man of my fucking dreams is sleeping on my pullout couch how did i get this lucky or unlucky wtf i need to make sure this goes perfectly and im already fuckig it up--  
> Craig, oblivious and very conflicted: *heart eyes emoji* *angry emoji* *confused emoji*

Tweek walks home. Because if he walks home he can pick up Craig’s clothes. Craig is less likely to be mad if Tweek picks up his clothes for him– even if he’ll probably fit in Tweek’s old clothes, more or less. Tweek decides, after a few seconds, that he’s not going to think about Craig, groggy in the mid to late morning, cradling a mug of coffee that Tweek made him between his hands and occasionally taking a sleepy sip, wearing one of Tweek’s old button-ups and some pajama pants, smiling at something funny Tweek said and just looking beautiful in the golden light coming through the kitchen window. No. No more of that. Tweek will get nothing done if he thinks about things like that. 

Maybe he’ll save that thought for later. As a treat. 

Craig’s clothes, conveniently, are all stuffed inside his sleeping bag. Inconveniently, his sleeping bag is almost completely soaked with partially-melted snow. Ew. And heavy, fuck. But he’s already determined that he’s doing this, and Tweek does not give up on the things he’s determined to do. So he hefts up the sleeping bag like any other 50-pound coffee bean bag and treks home and flops it in the laundry room by the side-door and then finds his mom sleeping on the loveseat and Craig sitting straight up and staring at her with an intense enough glare to level maybe one and a half small city blocks. He’s got weird-looking–  _ familiar-looking _ – red marks on his wrists and hands. No skin broken, but like he’s been scratching at them. 

Tweek forgets how to speak for a second. Because Craig Tucker is in his living room, conscious  _ and _ lucid, which is a new record for their level of interaction, the previous record-holding interaction being Tweek accidentally smacking Craig’s forehead with his chin that one time in the hallway when neither of them was looking where they were walking. That said, maybe Craig does or maybe he doesn’t remember that as vividly as Tweek does, because Craig, after noticing Tweek, immediately flips him off. Like, as a knee-jerk reaction. Then he stares at his middle finger like he isn’t sure what it’s doing. 

“I-I-I-I-I um,” Tweek takes in a centering gulp of air and releases it slowly, “Glad to see you’re up, C-Craig.”

Craig lets his middle finger fall to rest in his lap. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Swallows thickly, like it’s painful. Then gestures around with both arms in a motion that succeeds in looking exasperated in both the exhausted and confused connotations. 

“Oh! You’re in-n my house,” Tweek explains, “Tha-that’s my mom.”

Craig nods slowly, digesting his thoughts. After a few seconds of this, Tweek remembers to unglue his shoes from the floor of the hallway and he retrieves a pad of paper and a pen and hands them to Craig. Craig stares at them for another good minute, as if he’s forgotten how his hands work, or maybe he doesn’t trust them after the middle finger a few minutes ago. But he must decide his question is worth asking because eventually, slowly, uncertainly, the pen in his hands traces out:

**_Why?_ **

‘Why’ what? Why is he here? Why did Tweek bring him here? Why is that his mom? Why is Mom here? Why is Tweek here?–  _ too many questions! _ Tweek doesn’t realize he’s getting anxious until he feels his hands stretching themselves apart in that habit he grew to uproot the habit of yanking on his hair. Another centering breath. He can be calm. He knows he can. He is a capable person. He can stay calm. 

Craig doesn’t seem to have noticed the brief freakout– and who’s to say that moment lasted anything longer than half a second? Tweek steps into the living room. 

“I f-found-ound you in the snow last night when I was ou-o-out for a walk. You were s-sick so I carried you here. Dad g-gave you some medi-dicine.” Tweek figures he’ll answer all of it in one fell swoop if he just explains the whole smorgasbord of events. “Mom s-stayed-d home to take c-care of you.”

If his expression is anything to go by, this did not answer Craig’s question, but he starts scribbling again so Tweek figures he’ll wait– not anxiously, not anxiously at all– until Craig shows him whatever clarification he’s thinking of. Unfortunately, Craig doesn’t give Tweek any clarification, just a random fact.

**_You dont stutter that much at school._ **

Tweek blinks a few times. He’s not even anxious now. That pulled the metaphorical rug from beneath him so fast that he’s just kind of not even feeling the floor. He’s wondering why Craig would notice something like that. They don’t talk much. He’s right, Tweek hardly ever stutters like that anymore, just once in a while or when he’s anxious, but it’s jarring to hear it from someone else– especially when that someone is sick on the pullout couch in your living room and you’ve almost never spoken to each other. He says, “I g-guess I’m just nervous because you’re here.”

Apparently, this was the wrong thing to say. Craig nods thoughtfully, stands up, and starts walking towards the door. What!? Why!? Why is he leaving!? He can’t leave– and that isn’t Tweek talking! Craig’s eyeballs are practically floating, his head is swimming so badly. Tweek meanders him back to the couch with an easy tug on one elbow. Craig sits. Tweek winces. They stare at each other for a minute like something might come of it. Nothing does. 

Tweek takes the silence as an opportunity to count things in the room. His therapist says that can sometimes work better than breathing, and breath seems to be in short supply at the moment. Sixteen scratch marks on the green wallpaper. Seven wrinkles in the curtains on the window. Three people in the room. There. Calm. See? Tweek is fine. Craig is fine– although he should probably still be laying down. 

“Are you h-hungry?” Tweek asks, doing his best to make it seem like he’s as calm as he wants to be. If he acts calm, he can make himself calm.

Craig takes too long to respond, so the slight negative shake of the head goes ignored because it is clearly a lie. Tweek wonders what kind of food Craig likes, then weighs the likelihood of Craig telling him (which is unlikely, because Craig is being both testy and vague– the former because of who he is as a person and the latter because he’s sick), and decides he’ll just make soup. Everyone likes soup. Sick people love soup. It’s like food, but it’s a liquid so you don’t have to put all that effort into chewing. 

He heats up a can of soup while he sips a cup of coffee to the bottom, and puts half the can of soup in a bowl with a spoon and hands it to Craig, who looks entirely frustrated. It becomes rapidly clear that Craig either doesn’t like soup or doesn’t like Tweek, but he’s not saying which it is. 

The spoon doesn’t leave the bowl. The soup begins to cool. Craig is literally just staring at Tweek, expectantly. Eventually, with a frustrated grimace, Craig scribbles on the notepad.

**_is there more soup_ **

“Yeah?” Tweek keeps his voice down. He doesn’t to wake up Mom. Arm movements are doing their best to replace words for Craig, but they’re so abstract that Tweek understands literally nothing of what he’s trying to communicate. “W-what are those motions supposed to mean?” Tweek is trying not to laugh, and mostly failing. Craig flips him off briefly before writing on the notepad again.

**_YOU_ **

**_dumbass eat some food_ **

Is this? Is this what it looks like when Craig cares? What the hell? Why didn’t he just say it like a normal person? Although, Tweek supposes as he wanders into the kitchen to get himself some soup, it’s not like Tweek Tweak is really a paragon of normal either. 

“Look, soup,” Tweek says with only a little bit of teasing, “now we’re both eating.”

Craig narrows his eyes, but sips the soup slowly with the spoon. Then the spoon is quickly abandoned and Craig drinks the whole bowl– noodles and little vegetable bits and all– in a few seconds. 

“So you were hungry,” Tweek comments. Holding out his bowl, he offers, “Want mine? I don’t usually eat much.”

Craig shakes his head hard enough that he starts coughing again, despite the cooling chest patch still attached to the front of his shirt. Tweek is surprised that the coughing doesn’t wake Mom up, but she’s always been a heavy sleeper. She slept through that hurricane in fifth grade that Kyle’s mom summoned when she figured out that the Pope of the Catholic church had named her a bishop (despite the fact that she practices Judaism, not Catholicism) without telling anybody, and she went crazy with the small amount of divine power that all bishops, apparently, receive.

“Are you sure?” Tweek insists, “I can make some more soup in a jiffy too.”

Craig shakes his head again. He’s got his nails from his right hand buried in his left arm. It’s not drawing blood, but it looks painful. “H-h-hey, hey d-don’t do th-t-tha-that!” He grabs Craig’s hand and pulls it away from his arm and just holds it, trying to keep his breathing in control. He didn’t cause this. He probably didn’t cause this. Craig is in control of his own actions, not Tweek. Tweek can be calm. He can be calm. When Tweek unscrews his eyelids, Craig is staring at the mess of their combined hands on the thick old comforter that Dad had situated onto the pullout couch last night. Craig’s hands are rough, and there’s little tiny scars on the knuckles of his fingers, probably from splitting them open so often– Craig’s always hitting something. Tweek’s hands have all sorts of little scars too, but that’s just because his skin cuts and bruises and scars easily. 

Tweek retracts his hands and passes Craig the other bowl of soup. He’ll make more if he feels hungry. “Here. I’m done. If you don’t eat it, I’m going to thr-throw it out.” Craig grumbles quietly– Tweek thinks it sounds like an expletive– flips Tweek off for just a second, and then takes the bowl and finishes it just as fast as the other one. “Cool,” Tweek says, “Be right back.” 

The medicine cabinet in the hall bathroom is always a mess because nobody in the Tweek household gets sick often enough to use it anymore. Tweek got sick a lot when he was little, the way kids do, but not so much now that he’s a little older. So it’s a pain in the ass to find the cough drops, and they end up being in the second drawer in the vanity anyway, but Tweek does find them and go back to the couch. Of course, it’s empty.

Craig is in the kitchen. Doing the dishes from the soup lunch– linner? It’s something like four now. 

“Oh, thanks for that,” Tweek says. He wishes Craig would sit down, but he’s already done the dishes, so there’s no helping that. And he does appreciate it. 

When Craig turns, Tweek expects another middle finger, but what he gets is a very small, very forced, very real smile. Not to be dramatic, but Tweek literally almost has to sit down. He hasn’t seen Craig smile maybe  _ ever _ . Tweek wishes he had a photographic memory, or even better an actual camera. He wants to play those two seconds on loop every day for the rest of his life.  _ What the fuck!!!  _

Then, of course, Craig is the one who literally has to sit down, because an illness like this kicks your ass, and Craig stumbles on nothing and ends up crouching on the floor and Tweek has to help him to his feet and shuffle him back to the living room couch. Mom rouses herself with the commotion (maybe Tweek screeched a little, but that’s fine), and demands to know why Tweek had let Craig out of bed,  _ look at him, he’s paler than you!  _ But she’s not actually mad, and she makes Craig take more medicine before Tweek gives him a cough drop. 

“Alright, I’m going to go make myself a snack,” Mom says, “and we’ll have dinner with Richard when he’s home from the shop.” She disappears into the kitchen.

Tweek has no clue what to say, so he doesn’t say anything. Craig sucks on his cough drop for a while, and then he clears his throat with enough success not to cough at anything and says, “Sorry.”

Which is absolutely out of left field, as far as Tweek is concerned. The only thing Craig has done is the dishes! Why is he sorry?

Reading his expression, Craig adds, “For causing trouble.” He does a half-cough that seems to mitigate the necessity to cough aloud. “I didn’t mean to get your family caught up in my bullshit. Or you.” He’s frowning, angry almost, at some indecipherable speck on the comforter. 

Tweek doesn’t quite get it, so he doesn’t respond. Instead, he asks the question that’s been on his mind since 9:47 last night: “Why were you sleeping in a sleeping bag in the snow?”

Once again, Craig doesn’t respond for several minutes. A few times, he opens his mouth to say something, a lie most likely, and then closes it again. He peeks at Tweek’s face. Grumbles. Sighs. “I live there.”

“In the snow? In a s-sleeping b-bag!?  _ U-un-under a bridge!?” _

“Dude, calm down, it’s not a big deal.”

“It’s a  _ huge _ fu-f-f-fucking deal! Why are you l-living under a br-bri-idge, dude!?”

“Because I won the lottery–  _ why do you fucking think!?” _

“J-jes-je-j-jesus-us ch-c-chri-c–”

“Tweek– I’m sorry I yelled. Calm down, dude.”

“ **_Ack!_ ** I-I-I-I a-am-m-am-m c-c-c-ca-ca-lm-alm.”

“How the fuck do you do this?” Craig mutters under his breath. In a normal volume, he says, “Tweek, look.” And Tweek looks. And Craig has his tongue stuck out, a pen balanced on his nose, and his eyes crossed. Tweek huffs out two strangled chuckles. Now that he has successfully obtained Tweek’s attention, Craig draws a little crisscross on the notepad. In the center of the grid, he marks an ‘x’ and hands the pen to Tweek. “Your turn.”

With shaking fingers, Tweek grabs the pen and marks an ‘o’ in one of the corners. It’s a shitty ‘o,’ all wobbly and uneven and shit, but Craig doesn’t seem to notice. Just marks an ‘x’ in the adjacent corner. Tweek puts his next ‘o’ in the corner opposite. Craig’s next ‘x’ sits beneath his last one, and Tweek cuts him off at the bottom. Then Craig is trapped between two options for loss, so he draws his next ‘x’ in a random spot, with a frowny face on top of it. Tweek puts his last ‘o’ in one of the two winning spots and draws a little smiley face inside it.

Words leave Tweeks mouth with the even keel of any other day. “Was t-this your strategy? Distract me by making a weird face and challenge me to tic-tac-toe?”

“It worked, didn’t it?” Craig reminds him– kind of smug and kind of indifferent. Then, in that half-angry way again, Craig says, “Sorry.” 

“No, I’m s-sorry,” Tweek insists, “I’m t-trying to panic less. I shouldn’t have let my worry g-get me so worked up.”

This sentence clearly doesn’t sit right with Craig, because he’s still frowning. But then again, maybe Tweek is just reading too far into things. Craig visibly emotes only once in a while, the rest of it is just what Tweek sees because he’s spent so long staring at him that by now he’s almost got a sixth sense for it. No. No. Tweek knows what he sees. He won’t second guess himself. He can stay calm. Craig looks a little consternated, a little confused. 

“Tweek, your dad’s on the way home,” Mom calls from the kitchen, “Are you and Craig both okay with chicken?” 

Tweek looks to Craig for confirmation, and gets nothing– Craig is still half-angrily glaring at the comforter– so Tweek calls back, “Sounds great-t, thanks Mom!”

Mom will be on the phone with Dad while she makes dinner and he drives home, Tweek knows. So now he’s got to talk to Craig… about something. Anything. Craig coughs once or twice, so Tweek hands him another cough drop, and then puts the whole bag on the end table next to the couch. 

With sudden interest, Craig starts trying to fumble around to look for something. When he resigns himself to not being able to find it and being too dizzy to get out of bed, he asks “Is my backpack still under the bridge?”

Oh. Tweek hadn’t thought to check under the actual bridge when he want back for the sleeping bag and clothes. The snow had drifted with the wind and piled up in little dunes underneath the bridge, so he hadn’t seen anything by chance either. 

“My phone’s in there,” Craig mutters. 

“Sorry.”

“‘S not a big deal. I was just gonna text Token and Clyde. Tell them I’m sick so they don’t flip out over me missing school yesterday.”

“I can text them?” Tweek offers.

Craig shrugs, “If you’ve got their numbers. I don’t remember them.”

That’s kind of an issue. “I’ll go grab your backpack,” Tweek says, and he stands up, and then Craig literally yanks him down with much more force than necessary, leaving Tweek to yelp in surprise and sink into an ungraceful heap on the edge of the pullout couch. 

“Don’t.” Craig coughs. “It’s not a big deal.” He looks a little… embarrassed? 

Tweek can understand not wanting people to go out of their way, so he nods. “I’ll grab it when I go for my walk tonight,” he proposes instead. “If I walk the same direction I did last night, I’ll pass right by it.” With another half-angry frown, Craig flips Tweek off with one hand before going back to staring at the comforter. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D theyre both so dumb and i love them.  
> want more dumb ppl (and maybe one or two smart ppl)? stick around for next chapter-- its one of my favs tbh  
> check me out on tumblr [bmgh-writing] and tiktok [bmgh.writing] for more updates, memes, and maybe a poll in the coming days(?)  
> thank u guys all so much for all the nice messages last chapter QwQ ilyasm 
> 
> as always,  
> Scream at me in the comments, nothing brings me more joy!! :DDDD


	4. Who's got Craig Tucker's number?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> spoilers, but i give u no context:  
> tweek: :)  
> wendy: :)?  
> tweek: do u have--  
> wendy: yeah alright fine ill do it just don't tell anyone im going soft
> 
> tweek: u wanna play 2 truths and a lie? :D  
> clyde/token: sure??  
> tweek: 1. craig is sleeping on my pullout couch  
>  2\. my eyes are brown  
>  3\. craig was homeless, severely ill, and almost died  
> clyde/token: haha wait whAT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aslkdjfhlkasj AO3 GOT RID OF ALL MY FORMATTING I HAD TO DO IT BY HAND IM GONNA C R Y IF ANYONE KNOWS HOW TO FORMAT SHIT IN AO3 PLS HMU TTmTT

Richard Tweek picks up a loaf of his wife’s favorite french bread from that expensive artisan bakery he’s not fond of on the way home– she was up every few hours last night checking on Craig, even though Richard had insisted both that Craig would be fine and that if she really wanted to check he could help. Now, tonight, over dinner, they’ll be discovering how exactly their son left the house without so much as a hat and came home with a sick teenage boy. Kidnapping isn’t likely, but it isn’t entirely out of the question– after all, this is South Park, Colorado, and kidnappings have their (very justified) reasons more often than not. Maybe their son has been meeting up with Craig in secret for the past several months, and Craig collapsed while they were making faces at each other in the park. Richard remembers when he was younger–… 

But anyways, he walks through the front door and passes the living room, where Tweek and his friend are sitting in the most petrifyingly awkward silence Richard has seen since he himself was a Sophomore in college. He’ll let that simmer until dinner– it will enrich the conversation, he’s sure. 

Only when he is fully in the kitchen does he sing, “Hello, dear.”

And Martha sings back, “Oh, hello, honey. Dinner is just about ready.”

After a quick kiss on the cheek, and after setting her bread down on the counter, he sways from the kitchen to his bedroom to change out of his coffee-stained clothes and wash his face. 

“Dinner,” Martha calls, and he can hear Tweek helping her set the table, and bickering with his friend about not letting him help set the table.   
“C-Craig, you can barely walk without wobbling, you’re  _ not  _ about to carry a stack of ceramic plates around.”

Craig mumbles something that doesn’t carry through the walls as well as Tweek’s voice does. 

“Will you just  _ si-sit down? _ Fine, you can help with the silverware.”

Yes, this will certainly enrich the dinner conversation.

He comes downstairs and the table is set, the boys and Martha are all sat down in front of their plates, and Richard takes his spot next to Martha. Tweek looks jumpier than normal, but not anxious– just, nervous. Like any seventeen-year-old boy sitting next to his crush at dinner would be. Richard smiles. Craig is staring with borderline-murderous intent at the tablecloth, like he expects it to rise up and try to strangle him. Richard’s smile wanes. 

“So,” Richard begins, “how is everyone today? Craig, feeling any better?”

Craig’s eyes don’t leave the tablecloth, but his back straightens just marginally, just for a second, like a reflex. What a strange reflex to have. “Yessir,” he mumbles, “sorry about the trouble.”

“No trouble at all,” Richard assures him. “I remember when I was your age, I had mono for six weeks.”

“You did!?” Tweek cries. Oh, maybe Richard hadn’t mentioned that before. “What happened!?”

After considering for a moment, Richard decides this is not a great dinner table topic. “Oh, you know. It was all fine after that.”

“After what!?” Tweek shouts. 

“I mean, there was all that mess with the store running out of crackers, so basically it all turned out okay.”

“What does that  _ mean _ , Dad!?” Tweek demands, arms waving. A soft chortle erupts from behind a muffling hand, and everyone is a little surprised to see it come from Craig, whose eyes are warm and kind for just a moment before he sees the table staring and he returns to glaring semi-murderously at the tablecloth. 

“So, Tweek,” Martha begins the conversation that they all know will have to happen, “Craig,” she ropes him in too, and he does that tiny little back-straightening thing he did before as she talks, “as parents, we just want to know what happened last night.” She’s using that one tone of voice she has specifically curated (and Richard has one too, for the record) for when she’s discussing something Touchy. Very even, very kind, very open. 

Tweek looks at Craig, as if for permission, but Craig is still studying the tablecloth. “I, u-um, I went on my wa-walk last night.”

“No need to be anxious, son. We’re not going to be mad,” Richard reassures Tweek. 

Craig’s eyes dart from the tablecloth to Tweek’s pinching expression and back again. His brow furrows ferociously, and then calms a little into something more manageable, less aggressive, but still fierce. “I was sleeping somewhere I shouldn’t have been. He didn’t do anything wrong.”

“‘Sleeping somewhere you shouldn’t have–’… Craig, sweetie, what does that mean?” Martha asks. Craig recoils from the question.

Tweek’s hands are fidgeting up a storm in his lap. Craig’s face is getting stonier and angrier by the second. Richard is afraid dinner may not go as swimmingly as he’d hoped. 

Craig shoots Tweek one more glance that Richard is starting to think is an attempt to look nervous and then says, “You can tell them.”

“–P-pressure!” Tweek stammers.

Martha almost rises from her chair to start helping him through some breathing, or another calming technique, but Craig intervenes first: “Drink this,” and he hands Tweek a glass of ice water, “catch an ice cube on your tongue.” 

Tweek doesn’t think, just immediately does it, and the concentration required to catch an ice cube with his tongue distracts him from his panic long enough to diffuse it. 

Martha almost gapes, Richard blinks owlishly. That’s… new… 

They've been to online seminars and they’ve read the books but to see someone just  _ help _ their son without thinking anything of it or hesitating or panicking themselves. Richard feels a little emotional, actually. A switch flips in his head and he no longer cares where Tweek found this kid, he just wants to know if Craig is willing to stick around. 

While Tweek chews on his ice cube, Craig explains, “I was sleeping under a bridge.”

“In all that snow!?” Richard exclaims. He hadn’t meant to shout, but he checked Craig’s temperature last night, and he had avoided saying how bad it really was because he knew Tweek was in earshot. Craig had been halfway delirious with a fever of 102, and still shivering. Richard had given him as much of that medicine as was safe to do, and hoped he wouldn’t need to take him to the hospital by morning. If he was asleep under a bridge when it was cold enough to be snowing, it’s a wonder he survived until Tweek found him.

“I t-tripped on him, actually,” Tweek says, looking a little calmer now that the ice cube has been chewed and swallowed, “he was kind of buried in there.” That’s Colorado snowfall for you– Richard remembers when he and his friends buried a guy in the snow. Poor Frank. It’s a good thing he ended up being mostly fine, except for that leg. 

“Why were you sleeping in the snow under a bridge?” Martha’s got that fire in her eyes that Richard knows very well. She won’t set this one down. She has made this Her Problem. “Do I need to call your parents?”

With a shrug, Craig replies, “I mean you could call them, but they won’t really care.”

“Wha–…” Richard wants to sigh, or groan. What exactly does that mean, ‘they won’t care’? Well, he knows what it means, but is Craig being serious? Is there actually a parent out there who would just kick their child out? In the middle of a Colorado winter? “Why do you say that, Craig?”

Craig’s eyes snap up from the tablecloth, his shoulders square, and he glares at Richard. Viciously. Like Richard is a threat. Like Richard might be an idiot. There’s so much vitriol in that expression that Richard actually doesn’t know how to respond. 

Anyway. The point has been communicated. Craig’s parents kicked him out. Craig is homeless. 

Craig gets up and leaves the dinner table without another word. He’s trying to look intimidating. Richard thinks he looks hurt.

Wendy does not expect a text from Tweek Tweak at nearly eleven pm on a Friday. She doesn't actually remember who he is at first.  _ Tweek Tweak? The fuck kinda name is that?  _ But then she remembers. Oh! That one kinda twitchy kid from school. She was assigned to work with him as a partner in English one time. He didn’t make her do all the work, which was a welcome change, but he talked way too quietly when they were presenting it to the class, so that was kinda awkward. But she does remember him. What she doesn’t know is why he’s texting her at eleven pm on Friday. They haven’t spoken since the project. The last text in the chain is

**_Tweek: We got a 97 overall_ **

**_Wendy: Cool thanx_ **

**_Nice working w you_ **

But tonight there is a new text. And a weird one. 

**_Tweek: hey do you hav Token’s number?_ **

**_Or clyde?_ **

No. No, Wendy does not have either of those numbers. Why would she? She never talks to those guys. She doesn’t have any classes with Token, and she only has Physics with Clyde, and they’ve never partnered together for anything. She never hangs out with them. Why would Tweek ask her– at eleven pm no less– for their numbers? Why not ask someone who actually knows them? She’s sure even Stan and his friends would know better than her– or, more likely, Craig Tucker, that asshole’s always with them—

Oh. 

Oh, Wendy understands now. 

See, Wendy has English with Tweek, but she also has History with him. Which means she has them with Craig too (even if Craig never shows up to English). And Wendy is not blind. And it would take someone blind, deaf, and possibly mentally impaired to miss the way those two moon at each other throughout class. Tweek’s tall, so he sits in the back and just stares. Craig sits in the middle of the room and puts his head on his desk so nobody notices him peeking at the back row under his arms. But Wendy still notices because she could pass these backwater fucking classes any day of the week and twice on Wednesdays when the cafeteria serves pizza that’s actually edible, and she’s always bored out of her mind. 

But Craig Tucker is not exactly an approachable guy, and someone who gets nervous enough that his voice sounds like it’s going through a cheese grater for a presentation to a class of twenty-six kids is not exactly going to start a conversation with someone  _ that _ intimidating without precedent. Everyone knows– just like they know Wendy Testaburger can pass Precalculus, English, Physics, AP Government, and History in her sleep, backwards, at a death metal concert– that Craig Tucker will rock your fucking shit if you so much as look at someone  _ else _ sideways. He’s just an angry kid. In a town like South Park, Wendy can respect that. Hate the sinner, love the sin. 

But that leaves Tweek Tweak’s problem: How to approach this bastard. He’s much more likely to take a sideways approach and try and talk to Craig Tucker’s two friends first: Clyde Donovan or Token Black. Everyone knows that those are the only people Craig Tucker tolerates, god knows why, and they are much friendlier. 

There we go. Now Wendy remembers Tweek Tweak and knows why he’s texting her at eleven pm on a Friday night. 

One more question: do we want to make him squirm?

Hmmm. 

Were this a question of do we want to make Kyle Brofloski squirm, or Monica Ryland, or even that fucking piece of shit Eric Cartman, Wendy would say yes. Wholeheartedly. Without reservation. She’s taken a lot of shit from a lot of people, and she’ll dish that right back out if she thinks they deserve it, but she’s not sure Tweek Tweak does. I mean, he sucks at presentations, but he’s one of the only people she’s ever worked with who hasn’t made her do all the work in a project. That, if nothing else, puts him in her good books. 

She’ll give him his information. He’s a good kid. 

Oh, shit, she forgot she doesn’t have the numbers. 

**_Wendy: gimme a min_ **

So Wendy switches text conversations and texts Bebe. She knows Bebe likes Clyde, and Bebe doesn’t sit around and wait for shit to fall out of the sky, so Wendy knows Bebe will have Clyde’s number, whether she’s put that to use yet or not. 

**_Wendy: hey bebs_ **

**_u still got clyde donovans number?_ **

**_Bebe: wtf why???_ **

**_Girl i s2g if u want to make this a two player game i will fuck w u_ **

**_Wendy: Ew_ **

**_Gross_ **

**_No._ **

**_Some guy is asking for it_ **

**_Bebe: ???_ **

**_Asking for clyde’s number???_ **

**_Don’t all the boys know each other??_ **

**_It’s super sus if this guy doesn’t ALREADY have clydes number_ **

**_I do not want u talkin to creepy guys bb_ **

**_Wendy: its tweek tweak_ **

**_Bebe: oh_ **

**_Oh that makes sense then_ **

**_Omg is he finally gonna like???_ **

**_TALK_ **

**_to craig???_ **

**_I will give u this number if u promise to keep me updated_ **

**_[contact shared: My Mans Who Aint My Mans Yet But He My Mans]_ **

**_obvs change the contact name <3_ **

**_Wendy: 1 why r you so invested in someone else’s relationship?_ **

**_2 thanx_ **

**_Bebe: bc i am a bored woman in a very small school_ **

**_Wendy: 3 ur contact name oml XD_ **

**_Bebe: what can i say i am a pinnacle of comedy_ **

**_*comedy_ **

**_Wendy: alright since u care so much i’ll keep u updated if i find anything out_ **

**_But i am not putting effort into this, bebs_ **

**_Bebe: <3<3<3<3<3<3_ **

And Wendy changes Clyde’s contact name and shares it with Tweek.

**_[contact shared: Clyde]_ **

**_Tweek: dfhj_ **

**_Sorry, I droppd my phone_ **

**_Thank you, Wendy! I appreciatte this! I’ll give you a free coffee sometime at th shop_ **

**_Wendy: no prob_ **

**_see you Monday_ **

**_Tweek: See youu then! :D_ **

Why is Tweek Tweak such a good kid? 

**_Unknown: Hi Clyde, I’mm sorry for texting so late. This is Tweek Tweak._ **

**_I got your number from Wendy._ **

**_Clyde: oh heyyy tweek_ **

Clyde is not very surprised by this text. Not even at 11:36 pm. He saw Tweek in the cafeteria earlier. Tweek is thinking about  _ something _ – and that something probably has to do with one of Clyde’s two best friends, specifically the pissy one with the blue hat and obsession with guinea pigs. 

“Hey, Token,” Clyde says into his headset, “Tweek just texted me.”

“Real shit?”

“Yeah. Said he got my number from Wendy.”

“Rushing B. Dude, he actually got your number instead of Craig’s? I guess he’s a little more scared of Craig than we thought.”

“I mean, I guess– Fucking camping bastard. But I mean, if you didn’t  _ know _ Craig would you try to start a conversation with him?”

“You know what? That’s fair. He’s been beating the shit out of people since elementary school. I wouldn’t mess with that guy if I didn’t, like,  _ personally _ know him.”

**_Clyde: wuts up bud_ **

**_[contact added: Tweek]_ **

**_Tweek: hey um_ **

**_Are you in a headspacce to receive information that could be strssful?_ **

Well, that’s one way to start a conversation. 

“Hey, Token, I’ll be right back.”

“Why? What did Tweek say?”

“He asked me if I was, and I’m quoting here, ‘in a headspace to receive stressful information’.”

“Dude, Clyde, that’s weird. What does that even mean?”

“I’ve got no fucking clue.”

“I mean, I guess he’s trying to be considerate.”

“Yeah, I guess. I’m going afk.”

“Go for it.”

**_Clyde: ummm ya sure?_ **

**_Go w ur traffic_ **

**_Tweek: so I’ve got Craig at my house right now_ **

“TOKEN!”

“Dude, don’t scream in my ear!– What? Did a South American country’s government collapse?”

“NO, DUDE, WEIRDER.”

“Well don’t make me guess just tell me!”

“YA KNOW HOW CRAIG HASN’T LOGGED ON TODAY, LIKE, AT ALL?”

“Yea, he’s not answering his phone either. Weird, but not weird enough to justify your screaming.”

“HE’S AT TWEEK’S HOUSE”

“He’s whERE!?”

“YOU HEARD ME.”

“CLEARLY I DID NOT BECAUSE I JUST HEARD YOU SAY HE IS AT TWEEK TWEAK’S HOUSE.”

“THAT IS WHAT I SAID.”

“NO FUCKING WAY, WHAT THE FUCK.”

“Alright, alright, Token. We gotta calm down. Tweek’s still typing and I need to respond.”

“You tell me EXACTLY what that kid says– and whether he kidnapped Craig or slept with him.”

**_Tweek: he got really sick._ **

“Tweek says Craig got sick.”

“Yeah, we knew that. Why does that mean he’s at Tweek’s house.”

“I don’t know, man, the guy’s still typing.”

**_Tweek: and I don’t know if you guys know where he’s been living, but that made his condition a lot worse too._ **

“‘Where he’s been living’? What the fuck does that mean?” Clyde mumbles.

“What’s he saying, Clyde?”

**_Tweek: H’es okay now though!!_ **

**_Tweek: but I’ve got hiss stuff at my house right now. My parents said he can stay here for a while, so that’s finee, but since you’r his friends, I thought you shoul know._ **

“Holy shit,” Clyde breathes.

“What?” Token laughs, “Did they really do it?”

“Dude,” Clyde says softly, “Token, I think we fucked up.”

Silence infects the mic. Eventually, Token says, “What do you mean?”

“When’s the last time we went to Craig’s house?” Clyde asks.

“Get to the point,” Token says, nervous. 

“No, seriously,” Clyde says, “when was the last time we went to Craig’s house? I can’t remember and you’re smarter than I am. Token, when’s the last time we actually saw Craig go home!?”

Neither of them says anything for long enough that their respective headphones stop trying to pick up noise.

“Fucking hell, dude,” Token whispers, “you’re not actually saying–…”

Clyde dies in-game, but he doesn’t really notice. “I don’t know if I’m reading this right. There’s no way I’m reading this right.”

“Clyde, don’t freak out,” Token interrupts. Craig is better at calming Clyde down, but Craig is, apparently, at Tweek’s house. And has been. For who knows how long. Token can’t remember the last time he went to Craig’s house either, which means it’s been a  _ while _ . “What did Tweek actually say?”

Clyde reads the texts off quickly, voice beginning to clench. Token listens and feels his toes go a little numb. 

Shit. 

They knew something was wrong. They knew. They were talking about it at lunch. They knew and they should have done something. Craig never would have let them, but they should have done something anyway. 

“Shit, Token, what do I say back?”

“I don’t know man.”

**_Clyde: is Craig ok_ **

**_Tweek: he’s okay_ **

**_His phone is deaad though_ **

**_And he didn’t remembr anyone’s number. That’s whyy I had to get it from Wendy._ **

**_Clyde: ok_ **

**_ok Token and I are going to meet up w u guys_ **

**_Whats ur address_ **

**_Tweek: ljksa_ **

**_Sorry I dropped my phone_ **

**_You guys can come over, but Craig already fell asleep._ **

**_[location shared: Home]_ **

“Token, I’m going to drop an address in the chat. Meet me there ASAP.”

“Is it Tweek’s house?”

“Yeah. He says Craig is asleep.”

“I’ll pick you up on the way, Clyde.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :DDDDDDD they fweinds <3
> 
> stay tuned next chapter for uh *checks notes in smudged pen on my hand* slef ham?
> 
> put a funny meme abt the fic/chapter in the comment and ill turn it into a tiktok on my acct [bmgh.writing] <333  
> gimme a song that this fic/chapter reminds u of and I'll give u a small spoiler for next chapter :DDD
> 
> remember to come find me on tiktok [bmgh.writing] and tumble [bmgh-writing] for more updates!!! :DDDDDD
> 
> and, as always,   
> Scream at me in the comments, nothing brings me more joy!!!! <333333333


	5. Five Fingers In Their Bloody Little Graves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday to one Craig Tucker, who i will proceed to put through an emotional rock bottom :D

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's my content warning for a LOT of self-deprecation and angst, if ur not in the headspace to read this without internalizing, this is me telling u to get a snack, drink some water, brush ur teeth, and lay down for some sleep. come back when u have done some nice things for ur mind and body. i promise the chapter will still be here when u return

Tweek is fidgeting. Craig is trying to get Tweek not to fidget so much. There’s nothing for him to be stressed about. Why does Tweek feel  _ too much pressure _ ? Craig is the one who has to tell his friends that he’s been homeless for four weeks. There’s no pressure for Tweek. Tweek just has to send the physical text. Craig should be freaking out. 

Is he though?

No. 

Just hating himself. 

Who the fuck did he think he was? Just gonna strike out on his own? Craig Tucker, look at him go– he’s really got something going for himself. I mean, if he saves up he could get a nice area rug to go with the cinderblock he dragged from a parking lot to use as an easy chair, or he could get a cool desk lamp– if he had a desk. Or electricity. Jesus fucking christ what did he think was going to happen? He would miraculously survive a Colorado winter living under a fucking bridge, turn eighteen, and just fucking graduate with no goddamned incident like his parents didn’t kick him out because at least  _ they _ understood what a waste of fucking space he was– jesus just– just–  _ fuck  _ Craig Tucker. 

“C-Craig, stop that.”

“ _ What, _ ” Craig snaps. He didn’t mean to snap. He really didn’t mean to. You know what, it’s better this way. If Craig snaps at Tweek then Tweek and his parents will see what Craig is really like and they’ll hate him and then they’ll kick him out too and then he won’t infect them with whatever the fuck is wrong with him. It’s better this way. 

But here is Tweek. Unfolding his hands so gently, prying them from the skin of his arm– when did they get there? When did they start drawing blood? Craig’s ears are ringing… why? Why can’t he feel anything except Tweek’s fingers on his, and why are Tweek’s fingers so cold? 

“Craig,” Tweek’s almost whining, it’s almost funny, “you’re bleeding.”

Good. That’s probably good. Craig deserves to bleed. He’s got mistakes he needs to pay for. He’s done too much bad. “Fuck off,” Craig mutters, but his teeth click when he does. 

“Alright, we’re waiting for Clyde to respond,” Tweek explains, as if Craig hadn’t spoken, “I’m going to get medicine– the nighttime one. You’re shivering again.”

“No,” Craig insists, firmly, angrily, defensively. “That shit makes me tired.” He doesn’t want to fall asleep before he knows how Clyde and Token react. He needs to hear whatever they have to say before he goes down. If they say they don’t want to fucking see his face again, maybe he’ll just not wake up from that nap– but he needs to know beforehand. 

Unfortunately, Craig’s fever really is starting to spike, and he couldn’t get up to stop Tweek from getting the stronger nighttime medicine if he tried. He stares at his fingers instead of moving. There’s a little bit of blood– not enough to even coagulate, or build up into drops– just enough to color his nails a little red-orange. He hates it. Ugly fucking color. Ugly, jagged fucking nails. He rakes them up and down his arms until they find the uneven little spots they’d been sitting in before and Craig digs them in there again. The pain keeps him tethered. He’ll stay right here with the pain. The rest of him stays collected in a tight, tense, pissed off little puddle at the top of his head, but his nails and his arm are there. Everything else spins and spins and spins around that point of contact. That pain is his control center. 

“Here, swallow this,” Tweek sounds a little calmer now. He probably just needed a moment away from Craig– Craig knows he’s scary, he knows that he probably freaks Tweek out just by being around, fuck Tweek probably wants him to leave. And Craig will. The second he can stand up and stop being such a fucking weak-ass sack of shit, he’ll go. That would be best. Craig takes the fucking medicine. Tweek brought him water to take it with– why is he so nice? Why can’t he fucking understand that Craig won’t say no to these things? That he’ll just accept them and take advantage of Tweek? “Good,” Tweek says softly, calmly. He sends another text on his phone. He puts the phone down and sets the hand on Craig’s shoulder. 

Craig recoils immediately, the echo of pain not inflicted ringing in every nerve like a burn. “Don’t fucking touch me,” he hisses. 

No– shit. Why can’t he just interact like a normal fucking human being? Fuck, no wonder Tweek hates him. 

Tweek doesn’t seem to notice the vitriol, just says, “Alright, I’m going to take your hand now.” It isn’t a question, but Tweek gives Craig plenty of time to say no. Then there are his cold, gentle fingers again. Both hands take their time to lift Craig’s nails out of their bloody graves. This time, one hand stays with Craig’s, fingers locked together, Tweek’s thumb rubbing fidgety circles in the hollow between the metacarpals on Craig’s thumb and first finger. His other hand types out some messages to what must be Clyde, but Craig’s focus is on the hand holding his. 

He wants to cry. Nobody has touched him this delicately since… since sixth grade when Token and Clyde threw him a birthday party because Craig’s family didn’t want to for the first time and the hug Clyde gave him was just a little different than his normal hugs. Craig doesn’t deserve it, he doesn’t deserve this. Can a person die from being too cared for? From being handled too kindly?

“Gonna kill me,” Craig mumbles, and even he can feel himself half-gone in sleep, even though the medicine should take another thirty minutes to kick in.

Putting down the phone, Tweek uses his other hand to pull the covers up around Craig’s neck, pull Craig’s chullo further over his ears, and wipe a drop of water off of Craig’s face– who knows if he’s been crying, or if that was something irritating his eye. 

“They’re not mad at  _ you _ ,” he says sweetly, oblivious to the fact that they’re having two totally different conversations, “if anything, I’m the one they’re gonna be m-mad at.” 

With his free hand, the one attached to the arm covered in raised, red flesh and the tiniest little baby scabs, Craig grabs what he can reach– in this case, Tweek’s oversized pajama shirt– and hoarsely whispers “ _ go away _ ” before falling totally asleep. 

Clyde’s waiting on his driveway at precisely 11:56, about two minutes before Token’s car growls onto the pavement– his dad is already asleep, and will never know that he left (and he wouldn’t care, he trusts Clyde anyway). It’s absolutely bonkers that Tweek is even awake to text them, much less let them come over to talk about this whole mess. 

And fucking hell, what a mess it is. 

Token’s a broken record of “how could we not have known” and “I was so stupid,” and Clyde’s a broken record of “I’m just so glad he’s okay, dude.” Not that Craig is actually okay. But it could have been so, so much worse. 

It’s all they can talk about on the way there. Nothing else seems to matter, really. It takes less than six minutes to get to Tweek’s house, and Clyde vaguely wonders why he didn’t just walk. 

Clyde gets a text as Token switches the engine off. And then five more in rapid succession. 

**_Tweek: don’t knock on the door_ **

**_Craig is sleping_ **

**_And my parentss_ **

**_Jst comm ein_ **

**_It’s not locjed or anything_ **

**_Sorry_ **

“He says just to go in,” Clyde informs Token, showing him the texts when Token gives him a look. 

The door opens easily. It feels wrong that way, as if Clyde and Token expected it to stay shut, or at least make an effort to do so. It’s Craig they’re looking for, after all. But the door opens like it’s used to opening easily and often. The house is dark, but not quite in an eerie way, just unfamiliar. Less like a deserted alleyway and more like a crossroads. Whatever moonlight can be spared to reflect off the snow and shine through the big window next to the kitchen table puddles in the home’s main hallway. 

“C-Clyde? Tok-ken? Is th-that y-you?” a voice rings through the walls, and Clyde and Token follow it to the living room. At the source of the voice, they find a picture that is about as far from any idea of what they might have to confront that night as can be reasonably expected at just past midnight at a barely-not-a-stranger’s house. Tweek looks no less awake than he was when they saw him in the cafeteria earlier today, and is twisted a little uncomfortably sideways, the one free hand he can use waves awkwardly to greet them. Attached to Tweek’s non-waving hand, and attached to the corner of his shirt, is Craig, curled up like a baby, tucked under three layers of blankets, and mumbling a little in his sleep. Clyde wonders if he is hallucinating this. He looks at Token to check, and Token looks like he is also wondering if he is hallucinating this. This means, in all likelihood, they are hallucinating nothing, and Craig is actually willingly physically touching someone, and sleeping, and looking so much softer than they have ever seen him– conscious or not. 

“That was, uh,” Clyde says after a brief wave to respond, “that must have been  _ some _ cold medicine.”

“Uh, um, it h-hasn’t… it shouldn’t have taken effect yet,” Tweek mutters. “I think h-he’s just t-tired.”

Well, there really is absolutely nothing Clyde can say to that. 

Token sure can though, because he asks, “Is this why you told us to just come in?” in a tone like he can’t really believe what he’s looking right at.

Tweek nods, a jerking motion that rattles his shoulders. “He’s like a c-cat.”

“What do you mean?” Clyde asks, as an automatic reaction, without really thinking about why he’s asking it.

Both Clyde and Token are immensely glad that he asked when Tweek says, “Watch,” and lifts up the hand that Craig has apparently taken a shine to, only for Craig to unconsciously pull the hand back closer to him, mumbling something unintelligible without waking. The same reaction occurs when Tweek tries to pry Craig’s fingers off his shirt. “He won’t let go. I have t-to pee so bad.”

“Okay, first, I’m taking a picture,” Clyde says, whipping out his camera. 

Token nods wisely, “We’ll need concrete evidence to prove to Craig that this happened.”

Tweek twitches a little, but doesn’t object. Clyde takes three pictures, the last one with flash because the first two didn’t turn out very good– the flash makes Craig’s face wrinkle and open up slowly into wakefulness. 

“The fuck’re–” Craig mutters, blinking and trying to move (and then realizing the weird angle he put his shoulders into in order to hold both Tweek’s hand and his shirt), letting go too abruptly, saying “fuck” at a normal volume, re-remembering Clyde and Token’s presence, thinking very hard, and anouncing a third time, “oh, fuck.”

“Thank god,” Tweek whispers, “I’m gonna go pee,” and he scampers off down the hall. 

Craig pulls himself to a sit, muttering all the while, “Shit, fuck, fuck, goddammit, fuck,” so quietly that Token and Clyde would not be able to hear it were they not granted a special sense of hearing by the silence of partially-asleep houses past midnight (not literally, of course, that curse was lifted in seventh grade, with the rest of the curses, spells, effects, and going-ons). 

It becomes apparent to Clyde before Token that the emotion Craig is trying to express is  _ anxiety _ . Unfortunately for all, Clyde is a seventeen-year-old boy, and does not know how to respond to this knowledge. 

“How you feeling, dude?” Clyde asks instead. 

Craig’s face goes harsh and stony too fast. His friends almost feel the whiplash in their own brain stems. “Fuck,” Craig mutters, and his voice sounds  _ shredded _ – Token hands him a cough drop from the open bag on the end table. When he’s got that in his mouth, he says, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to cause trouble.”

Cause trouble?  _ Cause trouble? _ Clyde sits down with a huff of ironic laughter, mostly because he is a dramatic bitch, but he genuinely feels that way too. “Craig Tucker, I will fucking  _ kill you _ , the  _ fuck _ you mean ‘ _ cause trouble _ ’?”

“Dude,” Token chides, not disagreeing, just cautioning. 

“I know,” Craig whispers, too softly– softer than they knew that he could speak. “Sorry. Fuck.”

“No!” Clyde cries, then lowers his voice when he hears it ricochet back at him from the unused corners of the living room, “Craig, no! I am not actually going to kill you.”

“Jesus fuck dude,” Token adds, “I can feel your fever from here. You need to rest.”

“But I  _ lied– _ god, you guys must hate me,” Craig sighs. He looks exhausted. Like. Bone-deep, heart-droopingly, soul-crushingly  _ exhausted _ . And the worst part is– the part that’s really making Clyde sweat– is that he can’t remember Craig looking any better. 

“No!” Clyde insists. 

“Sh, Clyde, Tweek’s parents are still asleep– Craig, we don’t hate you. Come on, man.”

Craig’s face crumbles a little further. “ _ Why _ ?” he hisses. He sounds angry.

But Clyde knows better and he wraps Craig in a hug that Craig tries to run from for a second, and then he just settles into it like his bones liquefied and he can’t hold himself up anymore. Token knows better too, but he’s not as good a hugger as Clyde– what he can see from his vantage point, however, is Craig’s face. And Craig’s going through seventy-three emotions in half as many seconds. 

Then Craig sniffles and calls into the dark (without looking, no less), “Tweek, stop hiding.”

“I thought he was still peeing,” Clyde says, letting go of Craig.

But Tweek tiptoes anxiously from the hallway and peers into the room with a guilty look and a self-conscious wave, “S-sorry. Didn’t want t-to interrupt-t.”

Token shrugs with a small half-grin, “That’s Craig, I guess.” The best hearing of anyone they know, and the worst sense of smell. 

Tweek is blushing, which you can barely see in this light, but it’s still a little visible. So something magical happens.

Between Clyde and Token, they have seen Craig’s face go red exactly one time: it was when Craig overheard Stephen Barb talking shit about Clyde’s mom less than a month after the funeral, and Craig went visibly red with anger about nine seconds before he beat the everloving shit out of Stephen. 

What they are currently seeing is approximately the opposite of that, Craig is blushing because Tweek is blushing and that, for some reason has had an effect on him. But Craig’s face is red in a similar way. Clyde resists the urge to laugh, because Craig’s face is as red as Tweek’s and they’re just staring at each other for about thirty seconds before Craig stands up and says, “Bye,” and begins to walk to the front door. Tweek or Token could have easily dragged him back, but Clyde is a football player, and just picks him up and carries him back. Craig is too exhausted to protest, so he grumbles.

“No, you’re laying down and sleeping now,” is the general gist of what three people are trying to say at once.

“I thought you guys were here to grill me about all that shit,” Craig says, looking too genuinely confused to laugh at.

“No, dude,” Clyde insists, “we just wanted to check on you.”

Token nods, “We were seriously worried.”

“But if we get to ask questions, how the fuck did  _ Tweek  _ find you?– no offense Tweek.”

“None t-tak-ken.” 

Without moving off of Clyde, Craig shrugs weakly. “I dunno man, he tripped on me or somethin’. Ask him.”

Eyes turn to Tweek, who squeaks, takes a breath or five, and explains in super-fast words, “Okay, so I was out on a walk, and I heard a noise, and I followed it and it sounded like it was coming from under a bridge, but I didn’t see anyone there? So I was about to head back home, but I did actually tr-trip on Craig–”

“How did you not see him?” Token interrupts. Craig might not be as big as Tweek or Clyde, but it’s hard to miss a whole-ass  _ person _ .

“H-he was, um, b-buried in th-the snow.”

“ _ He was what!? _ ” Clyde cries, earning a reprimand from Token and a grumble from Craig.

“S-s-so I br-b-brought–”

“Tweek,” Craig leans off of Clyde to look Tweek in the face. He doesn’t say anything else, just suspends the room in flabbergasted silence and waits for Tweek to re-orient himself. Then he turns to Clyde and says, “Fuckin’ chill out, dude. I’m too tired for this bullshit.” And he promptly re-collapses onto Clyde, who has not one singular goddamn clue who Craig Tucker has been recently replaced with– or, if this really is his best friend, what the fuck this cold medicine is doing to him (it really is the latter at this point, now that the medicine has infiltrated his system Craig could barely tell a tree from a soda can if you asked him right now. He’ll barely remember any of this by morning). 

So Tweek finishes telling Token and Clyde what happened, and they listen, and by the whole three sentences later, Craig is already sound asleep with a broken fever and not a dream behind his eyelids. The friends promise that they’re coming back tomorrow to figure this out when everyone is conscious. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so not a very *happy* chapter for his bday present, but a present nonetheless <3333
> 
> i have been getting the sweetest comments and i would like to thank yall sm for reading along w me and telling me abt ur thoughts-- i cant tell u how much i love to hear them!!!   
> on that note, if u submit a meme this chapter or fic made u think of, I'll put it on my tiktok [ bmgh.writing ] (nobody has yet, u could be the first >w>)<3  
> also, if u submit a song this fic/chapter made u think of, I'll give u a small spoiler for the future :D 
> 
> as always, u can find me on tiktok [ bmgh.writing ] or tumblr [ bmgh-writing ] for more updates and daily fanfiction quotes!!
> 
> and, ofc,  
> Scream at me in the comments, nothing brings me more joy!!!!! <333333


	6. A Quiet Saturday on December 12

Tweek doesn’t remember walking to his bed upstairs, but he certainly wakes up there at 7:03 in the morning– an hour and a half later than normal, even on a Saturday. Usually he falls asleep by midnight at the latest, after a walk if he needs one, and wakes up by 5:45 or 6:00, but last night he was up until at least 1:26, so it follows that he’d wake up later too, especially since yesterday had been not just long, but really fucking stressful. 

Today, Tweek decides during his morning meditation, his goal is to calm himself down before he gets to the panicking stage. He wants to have zero anxiety attacks today. That, he thinks, is reasonable, attainable, and tangible– the three things that his therapist said to look for in a daily goal when he saw her last Monday. He can logically keep track of it, it’s not insurmountable, and there is a definitive line between reaching it and not. Nice. 

He almost breaks that goal fourteen minutes later when he gets to the kitchen to make some breakfast and coffee to find Craig already meandering around in the kitchen– Tweek catches him just as he’s cracking an egg into a bowl. 

“ _ Gah! _ What are you doing!?”

“Fuckin’ chill, I’m making breakfast. Your parents left a note, by the way.”

“They always leave a note.”

“Aight. I’m making scrambled eggs. Can’t cook for shit other than that.”

Inching into the kitchen, Tweek offers, “I can help?”

“No,” Craig snaps. There’s the slightest twitch in his frown that Tweek understands to mean that Craig’s still got half of that sentence stuck in his trachea. He does that a lot, Tweek has noticed, says something but means something else– not something  _ different _ , just more than what came through (or maybe Tweek has been staring too much, who’s to say).

But Tweek can’t sit still while Craig– whose pallor has improved immensely overnight, if nothing else– makes breakfast, so Tweek pulls out a bigger bowl and insists, “Then I’ll make pancakes.” He gets a dirty look, which he pointedly ignores. Craig shouldn’t even be  _ awake _ right now, he doesn’t get to be bossy. 

“You won’t even have time to make the fucking pancakes before I’m finished with the eggs,” Craig grumbles. It’s a weird, non-angry kind of grumble. Tweek might chalk it up to Craig’s throat still bothering him, except for the slight frown. 

Without taking any time to try and untangle whatever has Craig grumbling and frowning without actually being angry, Tweek pulls out a whisk and replies, “We’ll see, I guess.”

Mixing with one hand, Tweek’s eyes drift to read the note his parents always leave him in the mornings where they open the shop. 

_ Good morning Tweek (and Craig), _

_ We’ve gone to open up the shop. Make sure Craig takes some more medicine when he wakes up, we don’t want that fever spiking again! Tweek, you don’t have to come in for the afternoon shift, we’ve got it for today (but tomorrow we’ll need your help with the church rush  _ _ ☺ _ _ ). Craig, make yourself at home. When we get home, we want to talk about options for where Craig is going to live. Nobody’s upset ♡ _

_ See you both at seven (we’re going to eat lunch at that cute cafe down the street), _

_ Mom and Dad _

Tweek has pancakes on the griddle by the time Craig is starting to get to the scrambling part of the eggs– the speed makes Craig’s expression pinch into what could be surprise, if it was kind of annoyed. They finish their respective dishes at the same time, Craig looks like he’s fuming, just a little. They make their plates and sit down at the kitchen table with some glasses of water. 

The silence is awkward for a minute. What the fuck are they supposed to talk about? The weather? It’s been normal as any other Coloradan city since seventh grade. How they’ve been? Well, Tweek will be taking his meds while Craig takes fever medicine after they finish eating, so that’s already kind of a known variable. They haven’t ever really technically  _ spoken _ to each other like normal human beings. 

“Were you looking at the stars or the snow?” Tweek blurts. He hadn’t meant to. Shit. That’s like, the worst thing he could have brought up. Tweek is certain that the last thing Craig wants to talk about is why, exactly, he was sleeping next to the bridge instead of under it. 

But, without any emotion– no animosity or nonplussedness or even any special amount of apathy– Craig replies, “Kinda both.” He takes Tweek’s silence as an incentive to venture another two sentences. “Mostly the stars, but then it started snowing. Got too tired to move.” 

“Oh,” Tweek nods. Pauses to take another few bites of eggs. They’re pretty good eggs, despite what Craig had said about not being able to cook. “Do you like stargazing?”

For just half a second, Craig’s eyes light up, like Tweek had guessed the right answer and now Craig feels free to gush, but the lights go out just as fast as they came and instead, Craig shrugs and eats more pancakes. “I mean, I fucking guess. I’m shit at it though.” 

“How can you be shit at looking at the stars?” Tweek blurts again. Shit. Dammit. He needs to learn how to shut his mouth. Clearly Craig didn’t want to talk about it. Why did he bring it back up?

One of Craig’s hands abandons mealtime to scratch at his other wrist. Tweek wonders if Craig will need, like, some band-aids or something to keep Craig from fucking his arm up too much. Or long sleeves that are harder to roll up. 

“I only know a couple constellations,” Craig admits, like it’s a mistake that he needs to correct. An egregious sin, or something. 

Finishing his eggs, Tweek replies, “I mean, th-that’s a couple more than I know. And who said you need to be good at something to enjoy it?” That’s what Tweek’s therapist has always told him. It gives Craig something to chew on, that’s for sure, while Tweek rinses both of their dishes and puts them in the dishwasher. When he’s done, Craig is staring at him, expression half-angry again, and he bites his cheek before flipping Tweek off. For absolutely no reason. But whatever. So Craig isn’t super fond of him. Ouch, but Craig isn’t super fond of anyone whose name isn’t Token or Clyde. 

“Did you take your cold medicine?”

“Fuck off.”

“Dude, what the fuck? Wh-Why are you being so rude?”

“Why are you being so fucking nice!?” 

“What are you talking about!?” Tweek has no recollection of being nice in any capacity that would be considered weird, or even mentionable. If anything, he’s been overly-anxious (having your crush dumped on you with a cold like a stray cat will do that) and a little bit more sassy than he’d usually venture to be. He’s got  _ no clue _ what Craig Tucker is even referring to. 

But Craig is adamant and frustrated. 

And Tweek doesn’t know what to do about that.

So he stomps to the bathroom, grabs the daytime, non-drowsy cold medicine from the cabinet, and stomps back to hand it to Craig, who grabs it with a huff, shoves a tablet out of the blister-pack, and swallows it dry. In retaliation, Tweek refills Craig’s water glass from breakfast and shoves it at him, and Craig yanks it into his grasp and swallows the whole thing in three gulps before practically slamming the cup on the counter. 

For some reason, they both crack up laughing. 

The rest of their conversations that morning go about as well. 

**_Clyde created the groupchat: Concerned Parents™_ **

**_Token: oh no, Clyde’s making more groupchats_ **

**_Clyde: u know it bb ;)_ **

**_Tweek: Oh_ **

**_Uh_ **

**_Hi guys!_ **

**_Clyde: im sure u r all wondering y i have gathered u here today_ **

**_Token: we’re really not_ **

**_Tweek: I would actually like to know_ **

**_Hey fuckwad why is tweek in this chat and not me_ **

**_Asldkfjj_ **

**_Sorry_ **

**_That was Craig_ **

**_Token: Craig be nice to Tweek_ **

**_jfc I’m really fitting the “””Concerned Parent””” sterotypes here_ **

**_My instructions still stand_ **

**_Clyde: Craig, if u were in this chat it would not be called concerned parents, it would be called concerned parents and their wayward delinquent child_ **

**_Besides isn’t ur phone like dead_ **

**_Token: clyde will u get to the point so I can keep researching??_ **

**_Tweek: Craig is still peevedd. He went to the livng room to sulk_ **

**_Token: …_ **

**_Hey Tweek_ **

**_How did you become proficient in Craig’s coding language in less than 2 days?_ **

**_Clyde: ^^^_ **

**_BIG MOOD_ **

**_HOW DID U DO THAT_ **

**_IT TOOK ME YEARS BEFORE I COULD TELL IF HE WAS HAPPY OR SAD_ **

**_Y E A R S_ **

**_Tweek: ??? I ddon’t know??_ **

**_What doo you mean?_ **

**_He’s just got a normal face?_ **

**_I don’t think he likes me, butt I can tell when I’m pissng him of more than normmal?_ **

**_Token: hmmm_ **

**_Clyde: hmmmmmm_ **

**_ANYWAY_ **

**_I made this chat because my son is apparently homeless and, as his father, i cannot let this stand_ **

**_Token: I thought we talked about this this morning Clyde??_ **

**_Clyde: yea but Tweek should know too_ **

**_I mean Craig is kinda crashing there rn_ **

**_Tweek: what did youu gys come up wthh?_ **

**_I’m sure my pareents willl et him stay here, but he’d either be sharing my room or leeping on the couch_ **

**_Imma go live under the fukin bridge again if u guys try to make decisions without me_ **

**_Fukin watch_ **

**_Im not 2 ffs i can take care of myself_ **

**_That wwas craig again. He’s back from the living roomm._ **

**_Token: 1.) Craig did you forget that you got sick and were LIVING UNDER A BRIDGE??_ **

**_2.) we aren’t trying to make decision without you, your phone is just dead_ **

**_3.) I told you already, be nice to Tweek._ **

**_Tweek: fuck u token_ **

**_Im fine_ **

**_Token: clearly, you’re not_ **

**_Clyde: is tweek letting u type or r u stealing his phone?_ **

**_Tweek: im stealin it_ **

**_hes pissed abt it_ **

**_But fuck it he was gonna be pissed abt somn i do anyway_ **

**_Token: Alright, I’ll get right to it so Tweek can have his phone back sooner._ **

**_Craig, my parents said they’d be fine with you crashing at my house for a while._ **

**_Tweek: tf_ **

**_No_ **

**_Why would they say that_ **

**_You don’t need to do that._ **

**_I don’t want to make trouble for anyone._ **

**_Token: you wouldn’t be making trouble for anyone._ **

**_Clyde: fr dude have u seen Token’s house? Yall could go 3 weeks and not even pass each other in one of the two kitchens_ **

**_Token: the basement bar doesn’t count as a kitchen_ **

**_Clyde: IT HAS A FRIDGE AND A STOVE IT COUNTS_ **

**_Tweek: Craig ggave me back my phone._ **

**_He says “I’m done talking to idiots””_ **

**_Oh sory he said i wasn’tt supposed to tell you that_ **

**_Lasdkjkaio;;;_ **

**_tweek is a liar i didnt say shit_ **

**_Craig is angry withh me now_ **

**_Token: alright but i am taking this as consent that he’s going to come to my house tomorrow at noon_ **

**_Tweek: he says “whatever, fucker”_ **

**_Token: Tweek you are invited tomorrow too, of course_ **

**_Clyde: ofc we cannot forget the newest member of the Squad_ **

**_Tweek: askdjf;a_ **

**_sorrry i dropped my phone_ **

**_I’m part of your squad?_ **

**_Token: yes_ **

**_Was us ambushing you in your house at midnight an unclear orientation??_ **

**_Clyde: XD_ **

**_No but fr fr tweek u r a verified squad member_ **

**_Tweek: Craig is evenn mor maad at me noww i thnk hee objects_ **

**_Token: please hand craig the phone………._ **

**_Tweek: its not my fault_ **

**_I s2g_ **

**_Token: Craig I told you to be nice wtf_ **

**_Tweek: dude i fukin was_ **

**_But he’s cryin now_ **

**_I dont know what i did wrong._ **

**_Clyde: why tf did tweek say u were mad then?_ **

**_Tweek: idfk_ **

**_genuinely no fukin clue what i did_ **

**_Token: then ask him????_ **

**_You emotional banana???_ **

**_Tweek: brb_ **

**_Clyde: why is this 30 mins more eventful than the previous three years of my life combined_ **

**_Token: same_ **

**_Clyde: tokes imma play some siege, you finna join?_ **

**_Token: sounds good. who tf needs premed research anyway fuck that shit_ **

**_tweek/craig, text us when you get this figured out._ **

**_I’m going to see all three of you at my house tomorrow at noon_ **

**_With craig’s stuff_ **

**_Because i will be joining pip and damien for a weekend trip to hell before i let my best bud go homeless while my house has two spare bedrooms????_ **

“Why are you crying?”

“I’m not. I’m not crying.”

“You were.”

“N-not anymore.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to s-say.”

“Why not?”

“It-t’s kind of embarassing.”

“Do I look like I give enough of a shit to judge?”

“I’m still not gonna say.”

“Fine, fuck it. At least I can tell Token I tried.”

“Okay.”

They’re sitting next to each other on the pullout couch. There was a rerun of a movie that, to their distracted attention spans, wasn’t horrible, but out of all the times where they wrestled over Tweek’s phone, they must have pressed too hard on the remote, because now they’re watching Jeopardy on mute. Both boys are too stubborn to change the channel, because they’d have to find the remote first, which would require communication. They suffer in silence for, if you’re counting like Tweek is, 82 seconds.

Then, apparently, Craig can’t take it anymore.

“Are you gonna tell me why you were crying now?”

Tweek flinches– bad habit– but snips back, “Are you going to be a dick about it if I do?”

After mulling it over for another ten seconds, Craig shrugs. “No more of a dick than normal.”

But what can Tweek tell him? That he got a little too emotional because nobody his age has called him a friend, said they wanted to be his friend, or even really spoken especially kindly to him in years? That he was so happy that Token invited him over that he broke down into tears? That makes him sound like a freak. No, Tweek can’t say any of those things. “It was nice of Token to invite me over too,” Tweek comments instead.

Dusk-blue eyes slide over to stare at Tweek. One calloused, scarred hand wraps itself around Tweek’s before Craig can even remember what he’s doing enough to stop himself. Tweek won’t complain about the support. 

And once the hand is there, it would draw way more attention if Craig were to snatch it back, so entwined with Tweek’s it stays. Most of the night before is fuzzy, but Craig remembers Tweek  _ unfolding his hands so gently, prying them from the skin of his arm _ , and Craig thinks “hell, I can do that shit.” 

“Are you sitting on the remote?” Tweek whispers.

“No. Are you?”

“No… I think it might have fallen behind the couch.” 

Neither of them moves. If they want to grab the remote, they’d have to stand up, which would require letting go of each other’s hands. 

“Who even hosts Jeopardy now?” Craig asks blandly.

Tweek shrugs, still a little shaky. It’s about lunchtime now, and he’s barely had two cups of coffee so far today. “I don’t think I’ve ever actually watched an episode all the way through. I dunno.”

Each in their own heads, Tweek and Craig zone out on the couch, occasionally making a stupid joke about Jeopardy, and what it  _ looks _ like these people are saying– because the TV is still muted.

Tweek hadn’t even noticed that Craig was commenting less and less as he sank deeper and deeper into the back of the couch, but he certainly notices when Craig finally tips over, asleep, and lands smashed against Tweek’s side. It doesn’t look comfortable, but Craig must be exhausted to fall asleep that way– and without the help of the sleepy side-effect of the nighttime cold medicine either! This event (and make no mistake, this is an  _ event _ . In fact, if Token or Clyde were here, they would tout this as the weirdest thing to happen in South Park since seventh grade. It. Is. An. Event) does, of course, turn Tweek’s face  _ bright _ red. 

Is this? This guy? This person leaning against Tweek’s shoulder, drooling a little on his flannel? Is  _ this _ guy the same person that Tweek stares at for five out of his six instructional school hours? The same Craig Tucker that Tweek has seen deck someone across the jaw for saying something rude to Token? Is that the same person who has– yet again– claimed possession of Tweek’s hand while unconscious? The cognitive dissonance between seeing Craig at school and seeing him asleep, muttering wordlessly into Tweek’s shoulder, is  _ astounding _ . Briefly, Tweek wonders if he’ll die from this much excitement– because ‘joy’ isn’t quite the right word, even if he is happy, that won’t be what’s killing him here, it will be the heart-stopping excitement of trying to use his one free hand to take a picture– because he  _ didn’t  _ get a picture of Craig’s smile yesterday, and he’ll be damned if he misses another opportunity to document Craig Tucker being human.

The picture turns out blurry and awkward, but he sends it to Token and Clyde anyway.

**_Groupchat: Concerned Parents™_ **

**_Tweek sent an image: img_026.jpg_ **

**_Tweek: is this normal for himm!?_ **

**_Is this just what he’s lik when no one iss around?_ **

**_Token: ummmm_ **

**_I don’t know how to say this_ **

**_But literally NOT AT ALL???_ **

**_Clyde: alsdjjas r u telling me craig is WILLINGLY PHYSICALLY TOUCHING U!?_ **

**_HE BARELY LETS ME HUG HIM_ **

**_I KNOWN THIS MAN FOR LIKE 20 YRS_ **

**_Token: we’re not even eighteen???_ **

**_Clyde: T W E N T Y YEARS_ **

**_AND NOW HERE HE IS!_ **

**_PRACTICALLY LAYING IN TWEEKS LAP!_ **

**_WTF BRO_ **

**_I WANT A HUG FROM SLEEPY CRAIG_ **

**_Token: seriously tweek how did you manage to make him do that?????_ **

**_We need to know,,,,,,,, for science_ **

**_Tweek: um_ **

**_Crazy story guyes_ **

**_He just… did that on his ownn_ **

**_He’s kind of drooling on me_ **

**_Does he normally talk in his sleep?_ **

**_Token: I wouldn’t know he practically never sleeps_ **

**_Tweek: !?_ **

**_Clyde: fr fr dude even when we have sleepovers he’s awake when we fall asleep ad awake when we wake up_ **

**_We’ve genuinely had conversations abt whether or not hes secretly like some kinda cryptid_ **

**_Token: can I take this to mean you two figured stuff out?_ **

**_He said you started crying earlier?_ **

**_Clyde: Q~Q_ **

**_Tweek: oh_ **

**_Yeah_ **

**_Uhmm, yes?_ **

**_We’ree okay i mean_ **

**_I just don’t knw if he likess me very much?_ **

**_He just seems angry all the time. Even when he’s happy he’s angry._ **

**_I think he’s trying. I think I’m the problem._ **

**_Token: Tweek,,, buddy,,,,,,,, no_ **

**_That’s just Craig_ **

**_He’s just like that_ **

**_Clyde: ^^^_ **

**_He’s just an angry person_ **

**_Tweek: why?_ **

**_Clyde: uhhhhh_ **

**_I’ll be real honest w u bud_ **

**_Idfk_ **

**_I’ve just known him forever and he’s always been that way_ **

**_Idk if there’s a reason or if that’s just how he’s wired_ **

**_Token: yeah, same. It was never a question I thought about???_ **

**_Craig is just how he is_ **

**_I guess…..??_ **

The rest of Saturday passes the same way. On Sunday morning, Token sends them a panicked text about helping his grandma, who is having an episode and has wandered away from her retirement home, so they don’t meet up Sunday at noon. Tweek goes to the coffee shop to help his parents with the post-church rush (which has gotten so much easier since the pastors of the rival churches in town stopped claiming the Tweek Bros Coffee was either in the spot where the biblical figure Rebeccah was born or that it is the spot where the antichrist will be born (Damien has already been born anyway)). Craig is persuaded to stay home under threat of every member of the Tweak household raising the alarm and calling a city-wide search if he isn’t at home when they get back. By Monday, Craig’s clothes have all been washed and shoved back into the sleeping bag– which has also been washed, and is serving as an oversized backpack for Craig. His phone is still dead, but a new charger will be five bucks at the gas station on the way to school. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i fuckin,,, i fuckin FORGOT to post yesterday!!!! didn't even fucking REALIZE it was Friday im so srry lmaooo XDD but here is ur chapter <33333
> 
> my favorite running joke is that craig when awake: i am stoic. i care for no one. nothing gets past my impenitrable emotional walls//// and then craig when asleep: yes. am baby. hold ur hand-- NO MY HAND GIVE IT BACK yes good hold hand  
> who knows if that's canon or not lmaoooooo certainly not me
> 
> i will keep saying (bc i thrive off comments) if u comment a joke/meme/song this fic makes u think of, u get ur choice of it going on my tiktok (either w or w/out crediting u, depending on ur preference) or a spoiler for the future of the fic <]:D 
> 
> as always, u can find me on tiktok [bmgh.writing] or tumblr [bmgh-writing] to see more updates <3333
> 
> and, ofc,  
> Scream at me in the comments, nothing brings me more joy!!!!


	7. An Interesting Day on Monday, December 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers, but i give u no context: (u get several bc i forgot last week and im SORRY)
> 
> Tweek and Craig: *sit next to each other in class*  
> Every Fucking Teacher In a Fifty Mile Radius, For Some Fuckin Reason: I am P E R C E I V I N G *eyes emoji*
> 
> Craig: :|  
> Tweek: i mean,,, i just don't think Craig really likes me all that much :/ he probly thinks im annoying :////  
> Someone: hey tweek, ur STINKY--  
> Craig, with his hand around their throat: finish that sentence and I'll finish the job. do u want to go home today or not? bitch.  
> Tweek: 0o0... uwu
> 
> clyde and token, every time they learn something new abt craig: QnQ im gonna cRY
> 
> Craig, resident possum cryptid, giving the object of his affection an item which holds, to him, infinite value: TWEEK LOOK I FOUND A REALLY CRUNCHY LEAF

School on Monday is… interesting. Nothing is innately different than normal, but for Tweek and Craig it  _ feels _ abnormal. They walk to school together– and Craig buys his charger from the gas station while Tweek fidgets and tries not to make eye contact with the meth addict staring at him outside the window. They go to their lockers separately, but then they have Physics. Together. Mr. Fieberg is an open-seating kind of guy, so they naturally sit together because Tweek is yammering Craig’s ear off about how he researched the different production methods and ingredients of methamphetamine drugs once (he’s still nervous about the gas station guy). 

Mr. Fieberg certainly notices. Both because he’s too smart to be teaching high school Physics and because he’s just That Kind of Guy. The two weird-ass kids who intentionally sit alone and avoid everyone else in class, and everyone everywhere else on campus? Suddenly sitting next to each other? Yeah, he notices. Doesn’t say anything though, for the same aforementioned reasons. Just keeps an eye on them while Craig, miraculously, doesn’t look at his phone during class, even though it’s plugged in and charging under his desk, and Tweek makes it through the lesson without banging his head on the table.

Mrs. Merino-Ott notices too, for the sole reason that Craig Fucking Tucker– her number 1 problem student, who shows up to maybe 30% of her classes and never reads any of the books, but who manages to get  _ exactly _ 69% on every godforsaken text, quiz, and homework assignment she assigns– is present and a-fucking-parrently ready to learn about the English language. For once in his life. She’s glad to see it, even if he’s only showing up to stare at Tweek (who would be a pleasure to have in class if he could make, like  _ one _ friend so she doesn’t have to pair him up with Wendy every project). Today was supposed to be a dissection of “The Yellow Wallpaper,” but now it’s devolved into a group vent about how little society has progressed with mental illness. Tweek almost has a meltdown when they talk about how it used to be viable to think a person was living in your walls (because some houses have enough space in there to fit full people), but Craig whispers something to him that makes him laugh so hard for a minute that Tweek forgets to have the rest of his breakdown– but then Craig refuses to share the joke with the rest of the class, so nobody else laughs and Tweek quiets down quick too. 

Precalc is the same soup, reheated. Mrs. Woolley does her best to make it fun, but there just is no way to make logarithms entertaining unless your name is Stan Marsh and you “just think they’re neat.” Everyone else takes notes in silence and tries not to make this any harder than it needs to be and, on good days, flings sticky hands at each other from across the room. Craig flings one at Tweek, and it sticks to the center of his forehead– which Mrs. Woolley chastises with a soft clearing of her throat that turns Tweek’s whole face bright red, shoulders to ears. Craig flips her off, but she pointedly misses it in favor of asking him to try the problem on the board. Which he does, failing horribly at it and sitting down with a heavy  _ fwump _ . 

And then, finally, lunch. After a morning filled with more math and English than anybody realistically wants to deal with, Tweek and Craig are relieved to hear the bell that releases them to the cafeteria. Tweek packed them both lunches (“I w-was up-p late last n-n-night and we had a lot of l-left-tovers,” he had explained nervously while Craig shoved the paper-bag into his backpack this morning), and they’e both going to sit with Clyde and Token at their usual table. 

Of course, a day can only go so well for so long, and so Alex Morenson accosts Tweek while Craig is dropping off his books at his locker down the hall. 

“Wha-wha-wha-what’s  _ wrong _ , dipshit?” Alex sneers. His gaze rakes over Tweek derisively, although he has to look distinctly  _ up _ to make eye contact and taunt, “Did you get  _ l-l-lost _ , like a wittwe babwee?”

And Tweek has been alone at school long enough to keep a straight face. Actually, dissociating a bit, Tweek mulls over how Alex could really be more effective at making fun of Tweek in the future. These insults are low-tier at best, and none of them really hit home. Tweek got lost on campus during a panic attack  _ once _ , and, sure, it’s a dick move to bring it up again, but he could be saying much more hurtful things. The only thing that vaguely registers as emotionally damaging is the fact that Alex went out of his way to try and hurt Tweek’s feelings. But none of the rest of it really registers as significant enough to cause harm. He’s heard it all before. He’s the Weird Kid. He’s had bullies all his life. They get tired of it quicker if he doesn’t react. Only, Tweek is hoping Alex gets tired of it really fast today, because if Craig comes back from dropping his books and Alex is still around, Craig might just decide to go to lunch without him. Bullies aren’t always hurtful, but they’re usually a pain in the ass. Nobody wants to be friends with the kid who has bullies, just like nobody wants to be friends with the kid who has lice. It’s understandable, if scary. Tweek still isn’t sure if Craig really enjoys his company, or if he’s just too apathetic to tell Tweek to shut the fuck up and go away. If Alex Morenson is to be believed, Tweek is worth less than the shitty, discolored, 2-cent-per-square-foot linoleum lining the school’s hallways.

Then, out of absolutely fucking  _ nowhere _ , Alex is knocked to the ground. Like, flat on his ass type of knocked to the ground. Nose-bleeding, jaw swelling, kind-of-crying type of knocked to the ground. When Tweek snaps to look, it’s genuinely Craig fucking Tucker huffing, “Shut the fuck up,” and then turning to visibly exclude Alex from any further conversation.

Nobody else in the hallway pays Alex, or Craig, or even Tweek, any mind. Making a fuss out of whoever Craig decides to whack is a good way to be the next person Craig whacks (Craig got to meet the superintendent once by doing that in Freshman year). Honestly, Tweek doesn’t even have  _ time _ to panic before Craig is wandering aimlessly into the cafeteria. Not a care in the world. 

“Don’t get left behind, Tweek,” he calls behind him, and Tweek takes a few big steps to catch up. 

In the wake of his most recent fight (if you can call it that), everyone clears out of the way in the cafeteria. As if Craig might punch  _ them _ across the face next. Like Craig might be in a bad mood. As if they can’t see that barely, just the tiniest bit, Craig is  _ grinning _ . Tweek is flabbergasted.

It wasn’t like he hadn't been able to defend himself. Tweek has a solid four inches on Craig, and he does all the heavy lifting at the coffee shop since Dad threw out his back a few years ago, so he has muscle to back himself up. Being  _ able _ to knock a kid flat onto the shitty, discolored linoleum was never the issue. Tweek could have done that any time (and if the look on Alex Morenson’s face is to be believed, maybe he should have done that at some point). The only thing had been that Tweek never thought it would be worthwhile to beat the shit out of his bullies. He knew that if he punched Alex Morenson, he’d have to punch Scott Malkinson next, and then Darius Ramadrian, and then on and on until eventually it’d be Eric fucking Cartman again– and half the school would be tangled up– and fuck, it just seemed like more trouble than it was worth. Might as well just sit there and dissociate until they’re done, right? Better that than to fight and fight until he has no clue how to put down his fists. But Craig has already whacked half the school at some point or another, a lot of people twice, and he just added Alex Morenson to that list. For Tweek. Who definitely shouldn’t feel flattered and a little flustered.  _ Definitely _ shouldn’t be going just a little pink in the cheeks about that. 

But Token and Clyde absolutely notice this, and haven’t yet heard what happened fifteen seconds ago, and they watch Craig drag Tweek to sit in the empty chair and then sit down himself with a huff. Clearly, Something happened with Craig and Tweek, but damn if Token and Clyde know what that Something is. 

“So, uh,” Clyde begins awkwardly, “how was… Precalc?”

“Y-y-you punched that guy in the face!” Tweek shouts. 

Token immediately looks to Craig, who shrugs. “You punched someone in the face, Craig?” He doesn’t sound mad. Just disappointed. 

“Maybe,” Craig answers coolly. 

“Christ, Craig, at least tell me you had a good reason?” Token sighs. He’s the only one who cares enough (which Craig doesn’t) and is level-headed enough (which Clyde isn’t) to try to explain Craig out of trouble. It works sometimes, Token’s explaining, but usually on the basis of Token’s reputation and intentions, not Craig’s. 

Craig shrugs. “He was pissing me off,” he claims, which is clearly a lie because Tweek whips his head around to gape openly.

Token decides not to push it. If Craig doesn’t want to say, fuck it, it’s probably fine. 

Ever the mediator, Clyde asks, “Hey, Craig, I brought too much banana bread again. Want some?”

And then the second-most unlikely thing to happen in South Park High School happens. And Craig pulls a homemade lunch out of his beat-up, seven-year-old backpack. And he says, “Nah, I got lunch.” And anyone who doesn’t know Craig misses it, but Craig’s eyes are shining like he’s holding out the pedigree certificate of a goddamned prize-winning racehorse. He’s just barely not smiling. 

Friends of Craig Tucker know that he hasn’t brought a homemade lunch to school since first grade. 

Tweek doesn’t know this, but he still blushes more and stares at his lap self-consciously. Like they won’t see his sympathetic nervous system light up the flare signal of incoming oxytocin if he changes the angle of his face. “All right,” Tweek relents (although nobody is sure what, exactly, he’s responding to), “but you can’t just punch people because they say shit to me.” 

Neither Clyde nor Token realize what Tweek means until Craig asks, “Why not?” and takes a bite of what appears to be a peanut butter and honey sandwich. 

“We’d be here all day,” Tweek insists. He’s kind of laughing. Neither Token nor Clyde has seen Tweek laugh before. Ever. 

Craig swallows, nods, and says, “It’d be a  _ great _ fucking day.” He’s also kind of laughing. Neither Clyde nor Token can remember seeing Craig laughing. On the outside, they laugh too, but on the inside they’re thinking  _ oh shit. _

At the end of lunch, Token and Clyde stay behind when Craig and Tweek go to their respective fourth period classes. 

“You ever seen him laugh like that?”

“Fuck, dude, I can’t even remember seeing him  _ smile _ like that.”

“We fucked up, Tokes.”

“I think we did.”

Because they’ve known Craig for almost their whole lives and they saw how he acted and they never bothered to ask  _ why _ . 

Tweek has art after lunch, and Craig has drama. Neither of them chose their electives, they have it in common that they filled their class schedules with the required courses– math and english and history and science– and then got to the elective section that was every kid’s favorite and went  _ oh shit I have no hobbies so who fuckin knows _ . Therefore, random assignment, and different classes. 

Tweek walks Craig to drama, which is on the far side of campus in a weirdly-shaped building, before walking himself back to art– and both Craig’s teacher Ms. Porter and Tweek’s teacher Mrs. Herrick notice when they walk in looking noticeably different than last class. 

Mrs. Herrick sees Tweek walk in about four seconds before the bell, four and a half minutes later than usual. She sees him sigh a little, smiling at himself and twitching nervously anyway, and sway into his seat, and she sees him pull out his sketchbook and start doodling before she’s even finished writing the day’s prompt on the board. It’s ‘Capturing Motion,’ but that doesn’t seem to matter to Tweek, even though he usually agonizes over  _ what is that even supposed to MEAN _ for at least ten minutes before he’ll touch his pencils. She’s so curious that she makes sure to walk past his seat– which she usually avoids so he doesn’t panic and think she’s scrutinizing his work– when she does her sweep around the classroom on the half-hour. He is  _ not  _ ‘capturing motion,’ he’s drawing a beanie covered in– what? Is that dirt? Snow? Well, it’s certainly a hat laying on the ground that he’s drawing. But she’ll let it slide– he’s certainly capturing  _ something  _ in motion, it’s just not on the page. And she’s a fucking art teacher in high school, if they don’t want to draw what she wants to draw what is she gonna do? Sue them?

Ms. Porter sees Craig meander into the room– on time, for once!– and drop his backpack against the back wall with the others and wander to sit on the floor in front of the risers that make up their faux-stage at the front of the room. His hat’s about to fall off, instead of being pulled so low over his face that it’s almost covering his eyes, and he’s just kind of… staring into space. Ms. Porter wants to ask if something is wrong, but she also doesn’t want to risk the three months she’s spent building up Craig’s trust in her not to intrude on his personal life. He’s like a stray cat– you can’t just pick him up and start coddling him unless you were thinking stitches are a nice aesthetic choice. Instead of texting– and Ms. Porter heard from Mrs. Merino-Ott today (not in conversation, they’re in different departments and don’t have much in common, but in passing, while Ms. Merino-Ott was talking to Mrs. Hunter) that Craig showed up to her class today without a phone too– Craig just stares at the wall of inspirational quotes until Ms. Porter is ready to start class. She doesn’t want to admit how much of the time that she should have spent pulling up the slides were instead scrutinizing which quote had caught Craig’s eye so much. A sophomore– Brenna– pulls Ms. Porter’s attention to class again, and she smiles and turns on the projector and they all choose a favorite animal to briefly research and then act out. Craig picks a possum, lays in the middle of the room, and stares out the window at the muddy piles of snow while he plays dead. 

Then class is over and she sends everyone out, except Craig. She doesn't have a great reason, and it’s against her better judgement to meddle, but just this once– “Craig,” she smiles.

“What.” And he doesn’t bother pretending that it’s a question, which is honestly a little refreshing. 

But she sees her mistake instantly. Gray-sweatered shoulders stiffen and straighten, offensive and defensive, and just a minute ago he’d been relaxed, laying in the middle of the room pretending to be a possum. “Hm… nevermind. Go ahead to your next class.”

He shrugs, and she sees his hand move to flip her off, but he restrains it by grabbing his backpack instead and walking to whatever class he has next– does he look excited?

Tweek is one of the first kids inside Mr. Bloomquist’s classroom because he’s a fast walker and Mrs. Herrick’s room isn’t far, but he isn’t the first. Of course, the teacher is there, scrolling on his phone like he couldn’t give less of a shit about whatever goes on outside of the times he is being paid to watch, but so is Wendy Testaburger, who is also a fast walker but doesn’t need to be to beat everyone else to last period history because her AP Government class is also taught by Mr. Bloomquist, so she doesn’t even have to get out of her seat between fourth and fifth period. To Tweek, it’s a little intimidating. Wendy is an intimidating person. She won’t hit you (she’s grown out of the physical violence of youth), but Tweek has seen her decimate people with her words. She made Eric Cartman cry once– which is a feat, sure, but the scariest was when Scott Tenerman tried to argue pro-life in English and by the time she was done with him he had to go to the counselor’s office because he’d had a nervous breakdown and he was at home “sick” for two days. She was much easier to text than to see in person, where you couldn’t turn your phone off if she decided to eviscerate you on the politics of using the intersectionality in the 1920’s jazz scene as a scapegoat for the subsequent Great Depression. 

And today, her eyes are set on Tweek the moment he steps in the room.

“Tweek,” she sings, and he nods, and she continues, “ _ how _ was your weekend?”

Which, for context, is such a weird question for Wendy Testaburger to ask Tweek Tweak that Mr. Bloomquist looks up from his phone to observe the conversation vacantly. 

“U-uh, fi– I guess i-it was, uh– oka– alright-t?”

Other students filter in around him, but he stays cemented to his spot in front of Wendy’s desk, feeling increasingly stuck there. 

She smirks, and if Tweek isn’t imagining it, there are some teeth in there. “Do anything  _ fun _ ?” Mr. Bloomquist makes a little face at this, like they’re speaking in code and he only has one soggy half of the cipher.

“J-Jesus– er, I-I uh, I me-mean– all I– I j-just–”

“Tweek, look, I found a leaf,” Craig mutters flatly, and drops it into Tweek’s hand while Mr. Bloomquist drops his pretense of occupation and Wendy drops her whole face. Truly, Wendy hadn’t meant to tease Tweek too badly, but she did want to know what use was made of the information she gave him. “Hey, Wendy,” Craig’s greeting is a little flat, almost annoyed? It’s out of place, and Mr. Bloomquist almost laughs.  _ This _ is unexpected. Well, nothing like the least likely friendship in the whole of South Park High to spice up classes otherwise occupied by the idiot high school boys who think they’re experts on history because they know a handful of WWII facts. 

The bell rings, and Tweek realizes what has happened. “Wait, Craig, why did you hand me a leaf?”

Craig drags him by the shoulder to a seat towards the back of the room, away from Wendy– who seems confused and a little disappointed to see them go. “Dunno. Cool leaf,” he replies, and for Mr. Bloomquist, Wendy, and all the idiot high school boys who think themselves historians, it means nothing, but to Tweek and Craig it means exactly what it was supposed to mean. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> u get two more chapters of joy after this. count ur days folks. <3
> 
> yall already know if u leave a song or meme this fic makes u think of, u get ur choice of a.) a small spoiler or b.) I'll post ur contribution on my tiktok/tumblr <333333
> 
> as always, u can find me on tumblr [bmgh-writing] or tiktok [bmgh.writing] for more updates, like daily fanfic quotes!!
> 
> and, ofc,  
> Scream at me in the comments, nothing brings me more joy!!!!!!


	8. Who's Going to Be Home For Christmas?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers, but I give u no context:
> 
> Token: it really do be like that  
> Craig: it really do be  
> Clyde: nOT ON MY FUCKING WATCH IT DONT
> 
> Grammy Tokes: B) I'll do it again bitches
> 
> Martha and Richard Tweak: OUR WINTER BREAK IS IN MEXICO MOTHERFUCKERS YESSSSS :DDD  
> Tweek Tweak: have fun! I'm sure nothing bad will happen to us while u r gone :)
> 
> Craig: i hate cinnamon  
> tweek: im so glad we're finally getting the deep stuff in our relationship *lore dump*
> 
> author: *title drops in the fic*  
> nobody: h-  
> author: did u see what i did?? i put the title inside the fic?? u see that?? u see?????

By the time class is over and everyone is done dissecting the Federalist Papers (if  _ one _ more kid mentions Alexander Fucking Hamilton, Craig is going to lose his shit), Craig, Tweek, Wendy, Mr. Bloomquist, and every other godforsaken student and teacher in South Park High School is ready to go home and potentially never come back. They will come back tomorrow, because it’s Tuesday and they are all legally obligated to attend school in America (except Damien, who technically has dual citizenship, so who knows if he’s legally obligated– but he’ll show up too). But they don’t want to. All they want to do is go home, eat something, sleep, and– in a few students’ cases– die. 

Craig is among those unhappy few. He can’t get Ms. Porter’s face, almost saying something after class, out of his head. Her eyes had been on him during class too. The expression is stuck under the bed of his nails, and he itches his wrist, absently. The little bandaids over the bruised scrapes from the weekend push his fingertips closer to the heel of his palm than usual. It’s still comforting. One little spot of control in a world built to confuse him.

What the fuck had Ms. Porter actually wanted to say? The twist of her mouth detailed not just concern but  _ pity _ ,  _ worry,  _ maybe even a little  _ condescension _ . It makes Craig’s intestines twist over and over themselves. She doesn’t know shit. She shouldn’t know shit. She couldn’t– she’s not  _ that _ intelligent– is she? Craig’s phone is capable of turning on now, but he doesn’t want to turn it on. God knows Tricia has tried texting him. There’s no way she hasn’t– unless– unless their parents took away her phone too. For texting. That’s how it starts. First it’s her phone and then she’s  _ a useless fucking piece of shit _ because she didn’t take out the trash and then she  _ doesn’t deserve to live in this fucking house _ because she dropped a plate and then she’s homeless living in a sleeping bag under a bridge– 

“C-Craig? You’re scratching off your bandaids,” Tweek squeaks, and the anxiety makes his footsteps bounce off of the shiny, refrozen surface of the snow. It crunches underfoot, and Craig tries to retrain his point of control to making the loudest crunch he can when he breaks the crisp snow-shell. 

His fingers attempt to press the bandaid back against his skin, but it doesn’t stay. After a few pounding, crunchy steps, it unsticks and flaps uselessly. So he rips off the other half. People always compare doing painful things quickly to ripping off a bandaid, but Craig doesn’t feel it lift away. He feels the cold, empty space on his skin where the bandaid had been before though. The sharp wind stings, but ripping off the bandaid hadn’t. 

“What’s up?” Tweek presses. 

They’re still walking, but Craig’s world stands still for a long minute while he tries to come up with an answer. These thoughts aren’t rational– are they? And either way, it isn’t like Tweek would get it. They’ve known each other for what? Three days? How could he condense his life into few enough syllables to say anything before his throat closes around the words and chokes him back into numbness?

He flips Tweek off instead. 

Tweek throws his hands up, exasperated and stressing over it, but they keep walking and he doesn’t press anymore. 

They’re almost home when Token texts:

**_Groupchat: Concerned Parents™_ **

**_Token: are you guys still coming over or???_ **

**_Clyde: wut_ **

**_???_ **

**_Tweek: were we meeeting up today?_ **

**_Token: oh,, whoops_ **

**_We were gonna yesterday_ **

**_But then my grandma_ **

**_So I thought we rescheduled for today??_ **

**_Clyde: oh shit how is grammy tokes btw_ **

**_Tweek: me and craig ar free_ **

**_If we end up meeting up_ **

**_Sorry_ **

**_He ain’t sorry don’t let him apologize for shit he didn’t do_ **

**_This is craig btw_ **

**_And my phone is charged now_ **

**_add me assholes_ **

**_Token: ahaha whoops sory for the confusion guys!!_ **

**_Grams is fine, She’s back in the nursing home_ **

**_Clyde: im free today too_ **

**_Lets link bitchesss_ **

**_Make this a thing <3_ **

**_Tweek: don’t make it weird clyde_ **

**_And can u fuckin add me already_ **

**_I’m giving tweek his phone back bc he looks like hes gonna cry but i stg if nobody has added me in the next thirty seconds im gonna kick ur ass_ **

Within half an hour, they’re at Token’s front gate. 

They almost debate climbing it, but Clyde shows up on their heels too fast to get headway on the idea, so they walk in like normal people. 

They sit in Token’s basement on the big gray couch, each of them are offered a soda from the stocked minifridge underneath the basement’s bar, and each of them takes one. 

“So my parents say it’s fine if you stay here,” Token shrugs. That wasn’t what they had been talking about, but Token is smart enough not to start too abruptly with the meat and potatoes of it– he’s known Craig for too long to try it. “There’s two spare bedrooms. Go ahead and pick one. God knows we don’t use them.” He’s trying to be as nonchalant about this as he can, because he’s seen Craig turn down Clyde’s banana bread while his stomach growled, and he doesn’t want Craig to turn this down. “Just one issue, they’re going out of town for a medical conference starting next week–”

“ _ Next week!? _ ” Clyde screeches, “but– that’s–! That’s  _ Christmas break! _ At least tell me they’re going to be back before the 24th!”

Token rolls his eyes. “Nah. They went last year too– I mean, it’s fine. They still leave presents and we have a family dinner together before they leave and when they get back, but it’s the only one of these conferences all year.” Token shrugs, like he isn’t hurt by it, “What am I gonna do? Throw a fit?”

“I mean, you could,” Craig snickers. And Token laughs. And the tension of the room is broken a little. Token seems a little less pressed about it anyways. 

“But as long as you’re okay with it just being me and you on Christmas, bring your stuff over whenever,” Token says. His tone is final– as if this has already been decided. Less of an offer of housing and more of a signing of a contract. And, though Craig bristles a little, he doesn’t actively protest.

Clyde does actively protest. “No, no. I am  _ not _ okay with my two best buds spending Christmas  _ alone _ in an empty house!” he says. “That sounds, like, super fucking depressing! Not okay. Not happening. I am inviting myself over for Christmas. Tweek, you’re coming too.”

“ _ Ah! _ I am!?”

“Do you not want to?” Clyde asks– and he suddenly realizes he hadn’t considered that Tweek’s family might actually  _ like _ spending Christmas together.

“N-no!” Tweek screeches, “Yes!” he flexes his hands flat like a twitch, “Fuck, uh– I want to…” he falters, “spend… Christmas… with you guys…” and then he tacks onto the end, “if that’s okay?”

Clyde wants to squeeze the daylights out of him. Token grins a little, “If you can come, it’d be cool to have you.” Craig fixes Tweek with an inscrutable glare before redirecting it to the pile of the carpet. 

Elaborate pillow fort plans are made (mostly by Clyde, with notes on structural integrity by Token and Tweek). Video games are selected for the occasion (only Token has played the Bioshock series before, but he swears on anything anyone cares to name that it is “both metaphorically poignant and a really fucking cool fps”). Tweek promises to bake some cookies, and Clyde makes him promise not to start without him. Craig, by the end of it, has said maybe five words total in the past hour, but he’s smiling. Soft and small and real.

“At a friend’s house?” Martha Tweak echoes dreamily. Hm. Not what she expected her son to ask. But he seems excited. She exchanges a look with Richard, and he has a knowing smile. They had been talking just the other day while they closed the shop about how much they were dreading another Christmas of shoveling driveways and slipping on roadsalt. Richard had emailed her (“email, Rich? Really, now. You could at least have texted it to me like you’ve been alive past 1995”) an ad for plane tickets to Rosarita. She had smiled and marked the email ‘read,’ because as nice as the thought was, she didn’t want to drag Tweek across the continent for Christmas– he already gets so nervous on planes…

But if he was already asking to spend Christmas with friends…

“Well, sure, Tweek,” Richard replied with less preamble than he might have used if he weren’t thinking the same thing as Martha. 

That, and, would it really be so bad to let Tweek spend his eighteenth Christmas with a boy who looks at him like he personally paints the sunrises every morning? 

They say yes maybe a little too easily, because they’re remembering those plane tickets and they’re remembering when Tweek panicked and Craig calmed him down right there, just like that. 

And, later, after really making sure that it’s okay with Tweek and with Craig, they book those plane tickets to Rosarita. 

On the way to school the next morning, Tweek offers Craig a cinnamon muffin from the shop– “leftovers. We can’t sell them if they weren’t made that day”– for breakfast. Craig smiles one of those tiny, real smiles. The ones that are just for Tweek, who does nice shit like bring an extra muffin for Craig.

“Nah. I hate cinnamon,” Craig replies. Ever since he stole (and then immediately puked up) that muffin from Tweak Bros., cinnamon has tasted even worse than usual.

Inexplicably, Tweek loses his shit. “You hate cinnamon!?” he shrieks, “How long have you hated cinnamon!?”

Craig tries not to be too thrown off. Tweek’s conspiracy theories have conspiracy theory, maybe that one trend where people were eating cinnamon, like, 12 years ago or whatever really sets him off? Usually, Tweek’s racing thoughts do just fine distracting Craig from his own, they don’t usually pose a whole lot of problems, or require Craig’s input. “Uh, forever,” he answers nonchalantly– and, out of a passing sense of curiosity, he asks, “Why?”

Tweek mumbles something to himself and Craig only catches ‘ _ dumbass _ .’ When Tweek feels like he can speak without stuttering, which takes a minute more of walking, past the bus stop that sometimes takes them to school, Tweek starts way back before the beginning: “That one t-time. Before you– er, uh, before you lived with us. I left a muffin on the counter for you,” and Craig absolutely wants to react to that– although how he’s going to react will be as much a surprise to him as it is to Tweek– but Tweek’s still going. “Y-you’d been hanging out in the shop for hours but you never ordered anything–”  _ because I didn’t have any money _ “– so I left a cinnamon muffin on the counter for you–”  _ and it was the only thing I’d eaten since the day before _ “– but I didn’t know you hated cinnamon! I would have put something else on the counter!”

“ _ What!? _ ” Craig barks sharply, and, out of necessity to conceal less desirable emotions, his word is half of a laugh. “Dude it doesn’t matter, that was so long ago,” his face feels hot and his stomach feels slippery, he wants to change the subject, and fails horribly– “Why did you even leave anything on the counter if you didn’t know I needed food?”

And Tweek looks halfway to losing control of his own face entirely and he rambles, “Because I’ve had a crush on you for, like, two years and I was figuring I should at least try to talk–”

He stops midsentence as the part of his brain that controls and records current events, like that he just confessed to Craig fucking Tucker in a conversation about cinnamon muffins, catches up with the part of his brain that tells people things, like telling Craig fucking Tucker that he’s had a crush on him for, like, two years. 

If it wasn’t for the rush of road traffic and the Christmas carollers on Faraday Lane and the non-migratory birds and the grade schoolers who crossed the street perpendicular to theirs, you could hear a pin drop. 

When Craig feels circulation leave his fingers and pool in his overflowing heart, he says, “What?” as flatly as anyone can say that in the current circumstances. 

Tweek’s face isn’t all red, but it’s red in his cheeks and ears and collarbone, and the tip of his nose but that’s probably because it’s 37 degrees outside, not because he’s embarrassed. “So, clearly this was  _ not _ how I wanted to say this–”

“Clearly– dude, what the  _ fuck _ ?”

“– and, honestly, I wasn’t gonna say anything at all! I totally get it if you don’t return my feelings or whatever, honestly it’s not a huge deal–”

“It’s fine.”

“– If you just want to pretend you never heard that, go ahead– fuck, it’s probably kinda hard to unhear th-th-thin-thi– stuff. B-but, uh, j-just don’t worry about it–”

“I said it’s fine don’t flip out about it.”

“– s-s-so yeah. If you’re uncomfortable, that’s understandable, I get-t that. You can just go ahead and move in with Token, and you don’t have to talk to me anymore–”

“Feeling’s mutual, dumbass,” Craig growls. And he has to growl it, and he has to call Tweek a dumbass, even though he normally wouldn’t. Otherwise– otherwise he might get so soft that the cold wind would blow him away, up into the sky. Something in Craig, just for a second, doesn’t want to join the stars yet. 

For about three seconds, Tweek stares at him like he expects him to elaborate, or maybe his brain is rebooting. He’s got to look down a little to make eye contact, but Craig won’t let him because he doesn’t want anybody to see what’s in his eyes, least of all Tweek. 

They continue to walk to school. 

“So,” Tweek begins nervously, “does this mean–”

“No,” Craig says flatly. 

Tweek’s steps stutter, and he takes two long strides to catch back up and mutter, “Oh. Sorry for assuming, I just thought that…” he trails off, and then back in “ya know, since we both…” and when Craig still doesn’t offer anything, he gives up pretense and just asks, “Why not?”

And Craig stops at the crosswalk of Green Street and Alentis Road and says with the gravity and forethought of a much older man, “You deserve better.”

No matter what Tweek thinks to say to that, it dies in his chest, withering in frosts of confusion and heartache, and then the crosswalk illuminates to tell them to step into the street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :DDDDDDD so,,,,,, clearly this wasn't how they WANTED this to come out,,,,, but uhh,,,, asldkjfhl XDDD GOD THEYRE SO DUMB I LOVE THEM
> 
> anyhow, if u follow me on tiktok [bmgh.writing], I'll now be doing livestreams on there of me reading the chapter (to check for grammar) w my sibling on Friday nights before i post-- find me there to hear the chapter early!!
> 
> as always, u can find me on tumblr [bmgh-writing] and tiktok [bmgh.writing] for more updates and some daily fanfiction quotes!! and if u comment a meme or a song that this fic makes u think of, I'll put it on my tiktok (or give u a small spoiler, if u prefer)!!
> 
> and, ofc,  
> Scream at me in the comments, nothing brings me more joy! :DDDDDD


	9. Tension on Tuesday, December 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers, but I give you no context:
> 
> Kenny: gUESS WHO'S BACK. BACK AGAIN. KENNY'S BACK. TELL A FRIEND.  
> Butters: ur doing great babe <3  
> Craig: no he isn't don't encourage him
> 
> Every teacher in south park, upon seeing craig or week do anything: WRITE THAT DOWN, WRITE THAT DOWN!!!!
> 
> could NOT be me throwing tiktok references into my fic as characters 0///0

Mr. Fieberg notices the tension right off the bat. Yesterday they were two peas in a very weirdly shaped pod and today they won’t look each other in the eyes. They still take a seat right next to each other, but they are doing their best to look as occupied with absolutely nothing as possible.

And then Kenny McCormick, who was absent yesterday for reasons not marked on the attendance roster, enters the room, and looks directly at You, and smiles, and whispers in Your ear and says, “Nice to meet ya,” and he winks at You, and he sits on the desk and asks Mr. Fieberg if his girlfriend still has that annoying-ass cat. Personally, he likes cats as much as anything else that breathes, but he knows two things about Mr. Fieberg:

  1. Mr. Fieberg was about to go bother Craig and Tweek, and Kenny thinks it’d be better if he and every other nosy fucking teacher at South Park High School would lay off
  2. Mr. Fieberg hates cats.



And the distraction serves until the bell rings for class to start and Kenny slides into one of the chairs across from Craig and Tweek– whom he has known in different capacities for a while, and never together. Craig sometimes joined Kenny in the bathroom during second period English to talk shit about their parents, and they’ve known each other more or less forever because their sisters are inseparable. Tweek is sometimes eating lunch in the bathroom when Kenny goes to take a piss or have a quiet moment or vomit up something nasty from lunch, and when he looks like less of a basket case, Kenny invites him to sit with him and Butters behind the gymnasium. Doesn’t look like he’ll need help sitting with anybody anymore– but isn’t this  _ interesting _ . 

“Geez,” Kenny says to You, “miss school for one day of dying and you miss all kinds of shit. Whaddaya You say we get nosy too?”

Ms. Merino-Ott takes one look at Craig and Tweek– followed closely by Kenny McCormick, another ritual truant of her class– and sighs. 

They couldn’t have fought, or Craig would be doing whatever he usually does to pass her class downstairs in the boys’ bathroom, probably with Kenny, but Tweek looks like a lovelorn schoolgirl who’s going to die of consumption in two days and Craig looks like he shit his pants. And they’re sitting right next to each other in the back row. And Kenny McCormick is talking enough, in the seat across from them at a table in the back, for all three of them. 

Kenny manages to get Tweek to open his mouth twice, Craig once, before the bell rings and class starts and Ms. Merino-Ott has to find some way to make a class full of high school seniors in a rural Colorado town understand that Shakespeare is neither high-brow nor heterosexual. Kenny McCormick, ritual truant, is strangely helpful in that– and it makes Ms. Merino-Ott wonder why he spends her class doing fuckall in the bathroom if he’s really  _ that _ interested in Sonnet 20. 

Mrs. Woolley notices nothing unusual, because she’s already got her hands full trying to get Stan Marsh to be quiet for just a few seconds about the Pythagorean theorem to Erin Stanley– they’re not even  _ talking _ about the Pythagorean theorem, they’re talking about logarithms! She’s toeing a fine line between endeared by his enthusiasm and frustrated by his distraction, and before she knows it the bell has rung and she has taught these poor kids almost nothing about the logarithms that will be showing up on their test this Friday before school lets out for Winter Break. 

Each department at South Park High School is located in one building, with classrooms located on the outer doorways of the building and one room in the middle. The middle room has doorways connecting it to each of the classrooms in the building, and one hatch leading to the roof, but no exterior exits. When the school was built, like ninety-six years ago or something, this room was intended for private teacher’s meetings. When Kyle Broflovsky decided to try his hand at being a school shooter in sixth grade– even though he never actually shot anybody– these rooms were rebranded by the faculty as “safe” rooms. Nobody really gives a shit though, and mostly, they’re used for the teachers to eat lunch in without having to interact with highschoolers for one brief, wonderful, thirty-six minute period. 

The Math teachers get along fine. The science department would get along better if Mr. Keyes would shut up about his failing marriage and four cats. The Social Sciences department gets along horribly because Mr. Co is a dick, Mr. Bloomquist an apathist, and Mrs. Williams sits with the English teachers. The Arts teachers tolerate each other. The English teachers get along like leaves in a tinderbox. 

“– Kenny McCormick finally showed up for class today.”

“You’re  _ shitting  _ me– Carolyn, that’s great!”

“Boy was talking about Shakespeare like he knew the guy personally–”

“Carolyn, if you say another word about Shakespeare I’m gonna lose it.”

“Calm down, Maria!”

“She  _ knows _ Shakespeare is off limits in the lunchroom! I can’t rehash this debate! It was the 6th Earl of Oxford or I’m a zombie nazi cow!”

“Maria, for christ’s sake, you’re rehashing it right now! Shut up!”

“Have you all heard about Mr. Co?”

“No, I thought he was still missing–”

“He  _ is _ , the only news I’ve got is that the police haven’t found anything!”

“How awful– I mean I hated him, but still.”

“Oh, Erin, how’s the GSA coming along?”

“Ugh, don’t remind me– front office is trying to throw more shit in my face. It’s like they  _ know _ I don’t have the time to fight them on it.”

“I forgot, you just got back the Freshmen’s papers on Lord of the Flies, right? For English 1?”

“Yeah. I wish they’d let me teach honors again this semester. I can see the promise in some of these kids, but you tell them to write a three-page essay and I’m convinced they  _ intentionally _ make their writing worse.”

“Actually, I’ve been reading a study–”

“You’re always reading a study, Tamiyoo.”

“Shut it, Petra! I was reading a study, and– oh, shit, I forgot what I was saying. Well, anyways. It had something to do with confidence. I’m sure it did.”

“ _ Speaking _ of, guess who else actually made it to class today?”

“Carolyn Merino-Ott, I swear to god, if you’re shipping students again I’m calling CPS– leave them alone.”

“You mean leave  _ us _ alone.”

“Okay, but this one will actually make you guys jump a little. Then I’ll drop it, I swear.”

“Fuck, fine. Who’re the lovebirds?”

“Tweek Tweak–”

“Oh, really, don’t tease him. I feel bad enough for that kid already.”

“Poor guy– I always had to pair him up with someone when I had him last year.”

“Okay, but I’m actually interested– who’s the girl?” 

“Craig Tucker.”

“You’ve got to be shitting me.”

“Carolyn, you can’t be  _ mean _ about it! Tweek’s so… well, he’s so…  _ shy _ .”

“Yeah, there’s no way he would even  _ talk _ to a kid like Craig Tucker– that boy–…”

“He’s  _ rude _ , for one thing.”

“I’ve never even had him in my class and I know he gets into fights.”

“One of the girls in my fourth period this semester– you know Sandy Washington?– told me he punched a kid twice in the face yesterday. No reason. Just walked up to him while he was talking to some other kid and knocked him on his ass.”

“That boy’s going to be arrested one of these days and I won’t be surprised when it happens.”

“Can I finish? I have my reasons, you know.”

“Oh, get on with it, Carolyn. Lunch is almost over anyways.”

“Before last weekend, I’d never seen either of those boys with another student even once–”

“Well, sometimes I see Craig Tucker walking with two other boys– Token Black and Clyde something-or-other–”

“Yeah, Token Black and Clyde Donovan. No idea why those two hang out with a boy like Craig.”

“Sorry, go on, Carolyn?”

“Right, so, Craig Tucker never even showed up to my class. But yesterday they walked in together– I shit you not they were practically holding hands, and today, same story. They’ve been sitting right next to each other.”

“God, Carolyn, I wouldn’t hold out hope for this one.”

“I dunno, she’s winning me on this one. I had Craig Tucker last year– anyone who can get that boy to come to a class discussion of metaphors has probably got him wrapped around their finger. I had Clyde Donovan  _ and  _ Token Black, and neither of them could get him to come.”

“Ah, shit, that’s the bell– I’ve got prep period after this, anyone wanna send a TA to help me grade quizzes?”

“I’ve got Frankie Rubio making me some copies– but I can send them your way when they’ve finished with that.”

“You’re a doll, Erin.”

Fourth period, Mrs. Herrick recognizes nothing amiss with Tweek, but Ms. Porter stifles a groan when Craig refuses to participate in any of the class activities. Again. 

Mr. Bloomquist watches Tweek Tweak scamper into the room and sit in his spot in the back row while avoiding Wendy Testaburger as obviously as possible. She rolls her eyes, but takes the hint. Pity. Robert Bloomquist would have loved to see something interesting in class for once. 

Craig Tucker strolls in and plops himself right next to Tweek Tweak, and they say absolutely nothing to each other, and Robert Bloomquist has never seen two kids happier to sit next to each other and say absolutely nothing. The rest of the class files in shortly after, and then the bell rings, and not four minutes into class an office aid enters the classroom door and stands politely, waiting for Mr. Bloomquist to have a moment for their errand. 

Frankie Rubio is a quiet, heavyset senior who tested out of half the classes they were supposed to take in high school, but opted not to graduate early. They seem to know the secrets of this school before the walls have heard them. Their fifth period is office aide, and they always know a lot more about the errands they run for the front office staff than the front office staff does. Mr. Bloomquist has some respect for a kid who’s here just to learn the things school isn’t intentionally teaching them.

After setting the class to some busywork, Mr. Bloomquist meets Frankie at the door. 

“Caig Tucker to see the principal,” Frankie says flatly, smiling. 

Craig Tucker, who isn’t far away, hears his name and flips Frankie off. Frankie ignores him and says, at the same volume, in the same tone of voice, while looking directly at Craig, “it’s about an incident of violence yesterday before lunch.”

Mr. Bloomquist shrugs, beckons Craig over, and for some reason, Tweek Tweak feels the need to join. 

“No, just Craig,” Mr. Bloomquist tries to say.

Frankie smiles again and says, “No, Tweek can probably come too. He was involved, after all.”

How interesting. Tweek is built like a freight train, now that he’s almost an adult, but as shy and nervous as he is, Mr. Bloomquist never thought he’d get violent with anyone. How very, very interesting. 

“Alright, go then,” Mr. Bloomquist says, and Frankie leads Craig Tucker and Tweek Tweak out the classroom door and to the front office. 

“Oh, Frankie,” says the woman with the implacable accent working the administration desk, “where’d you just get back from? I didn’t realize you’d left, I just got back from lunch!”

“Hi, Ms. Connie,” Frankie answers warmly, “Just picking up a couple of kids.”

“Oh?” Ms. Connie drops her glasses off her face, and they hang by a beaded strap around her neck, “And what are these two doin’ in the office?”

Craig shrugs. Tweek twitches. Frankie smiles and replies, “Kid named Alex Morenson said that Craig punched him yesterday before lunch. Tweek was there too, apparently.”

Ms. Connie’s bright face darkens, but Tweek pulls on his hair with one hand and blurts, “H-he only hit-it him b-because he was m-ma-m-ma– pick-cking on me!!”

Frankie’s smile widens. 

Ms. Connie’s expression shifts from darkness to shadows and she almost succeeds in restraining a smile. “Well, goodness, you two sit down– Frankie, will you be a dear and tell the principal I’ll handle these two?” When Frankie stops smiling so wide, she waves her hand and adds, “and if that man has a problem with it, you tell him he’s got a direct phone line to my desk and he knows how to use it. Don’t let him give you any trouble.” And Frankie nods and steps into Mr. Morales’s office, grin re-affixed to their face.

“Now, why don’t you boys tell me what actually happened yesterday?” she prompts, “Because I have met Alex Morinson and I have heard the things he says to people when he thinks nobody can hear him when I’m getting in my car after work.”

Craig offers her nothing. He crosses his arms and looks out the window. He’ll take his L. He doesn’t need this olive branch or whatever the fuck. He knows, deep in his soul, that Ms. Connie will only be acting nice until he’s fucked up enough times, and he’d prefer to save himself the disappointment of it all. 

Tweek, however, is only getting more worked up. “A-Alex M-Mor-Morinson just-t lik-ikes to fu-f-fuc– mess w-with me. Y-yesterday, C-Cr-Craig–”

“Ms. Connie,” Crag interrupts, “can you give me some paperclips?” Ms. Connie looks shocked, and doesn’t move. “Please,” Craig adds flatly. After a hot second of searching, she sets a little clear, plastic container labeled “100 Paperclips” on the desk. Craig hands it to Tweek and tells him, “Make the longest paperclip chain you can.” Tweek, whose breathing is starting to go shaky, nods and begins to string them together. Ms. Connie is still staring, blankly, like she’s not sure what the hell to do about this. “Alex Morenson is an asshole,” Craig explains simply. “I saw him being an asshole, and I stopped him from being an asshole. If you’re gonna give me detention or suspend me, just do it. I don’t give a shit.” 

Ms. Connie is still staring, blankly, like she’s still not sure what the hell to do about this, when the desk phone rings. She answers it mechanically, though her voice is anything but. “Mr. Morales, I thought I’d be hearing from you,” she says saccharinely into the receiver, “yes, they’re right here. No, actually, I don’t think I will. No–… Well–… Are you going to let me talk or is the school going to have another discrimination lawsuit on its hands? Thank you. I’ve resolved the matter–… I don’t care ‘ _ who _ it is,’ Cesar, they’re kids. I don’t care that he’s done it before. Well, for god’s sake, Cesar, you can’t be goin’ around judging teenagers based off of a few incidents, they’ll get a complex– you know, Tamiyoo was telling me about a study she read the other day– oh, alright, fine, but these kids are going back to class. Yep. All written up. I’ll hand-deliver it to your office in about five minutes but they’ve missed enough class as it is for something like this. Alright. Alright. Yep, thank you. Buh-bye.”

Ms. Connie sets the phone carefully into the cradle, sighs knowingly, replaces her glasses on the edge of her nose, types loudly on her keyboard, and peers at them above the rim of her glasses. “Tweek, sweetie, you feelin’ alright now?” Tweek nods mutely. Neither he nor Craig know what they’re supposed to say after that phone call. “Alright,” Ms. Connie smiles, “now you two get back to class– and Craig?” for the first time in his life, Craig feels inclined to listen to an adult, and pauses to look back at Ms. Connie. “Try not to get into too many fights, alright?” 

He nods.

Kenny invites himself to walk home with them, which means, of course, that Butters is coming too. Kenny also invited himself to sit with them at lunch. 

“I just feel like we haven’t hung out in  _ so long _ , Fucker,” Kenny sings while they walk.

Craig grumbles back, “That’s because we were never close.”

“Don’t be mean, we’re friends,” Kenny insists.

Butters smiles a little awkwardly and says, “W-well, sorry for bargin’ in on you fellas like this, Ken was just wantin’ to know how you two got so close so quick–”

“Leo!” Kenny groans, “You’re not supposed to tell them that!”

“Gosh, sorry, Ken.”

“S-Sorry,” Tweek interrupts, “are you two–…?” 

Kenny bats his eyelashes dramatically at Butters, who averts his eyes bashfully. “You didn’t know?” Kenny says. Eventually though, he does ask what he meant to, “But,  _ actually _ , Tweakers, what happened this weekend? You two are awfully close all of a sudden–”

“Shut your trap, McCormick,” Craig says. He only calls Kenny that when he’s upset with him.

But the anger of Craig Tucker, who solves everything in the ways that can’t really hurt Kenny for long, has never meant much to Kenny McCormick, and he presses on, “And I’m not getting anything from that brick wall, so tell me. What happened this weekend?”

“It’s r-really not my place to s-say,” Tweek mumbles. 

“Whose place is it then?” Butters asks, not really meaning much by it.

But Craig snaps, “Mine. Shut the fuck up about it.” When Kenny glares at him, he flips him off. The anger of Kenny McCormick has never meant much to Craig Tucker either.

“Knowing how somebody’s little sister treats them does that to you,” Kenny says to You. 

Tweek’s parents almost rush home from the shop when they hear Tweek has friends over. They’ve barely heard of Tweek having friends, a development from less than two days ago, much less inviting them over. But Tweek convinces them it’s fine, as long as they’re okay with it, and they are, so Craig, Kenny, Butters, and Tweek sit on Tweek’s pullout couch watching Red Racer reruns because it’s the only thing they could agree on for the better part of three hours. 

It’s unexpectedly comfortable.

Kenny has shed his 4-year-old parka (or, he’s had it for 4 years– it looks like it could very well be older than any of the boys in this room). He’s just wearing one of his tank-tops, one of the ones the school couldn’t find enough of a problem with to stop him from wearing it on campus. Before 7th grade, nobody had ever really seen Kenny out of his ugly-ass orange parka, but something shifted in eighth grade, probably around the time when Kenny cut ties with Cartman and Stan and Kyle. All of a sudden Kenny wore nothing but tank tops. Maybe he’d finally grown out of the ugly parka, maybe he was just feeling a new look, but he didn’t ever wear the ugly orange parka again after some point. That was all well and fine until freshman year– when Kenny threw some crop tops into the mix, and some girls joined him with those, and the school got a sexual harassment lawsuit that got plastered on page two of google all across the country. 

Of course, page two of google is still page two of google, so nobody ever actually heard about it– but in South Park, Colorado, two years since the latest bullshit? Kenny McCormick was forgotten once the principal bullied him into wearing full-length tank tops with no profanity on them, but the girl whose parents caused the scene moved out of South Park fast, and everyone has heard, by now, of how well she’s doing in San Diego. 

Someone, not his parents, because Craig knows those people and he knows what his little sister tells him that Karen McCormick tells her, got Kenny a new parka from a thrift store sometime during Sophomore year. Maybe Kenny got it for himself. Everyone knows Kenny’s willing to work an odd job or two when he needs something. Every May he almost fails his finals because he works himself silly at some part-time or another so he can buy his little sister a birthday present. 

Craig usually makes Trica something out of what he finds around the house for her birthday– not that he’s likely to be at home for her birthday this year. 

“What’re ya thinkin’ about?” Butters asks Craig. It’s commercials, and Craig is still staring directly at the center of the screen, so it’s safe to say he’s thinking. Lost in thought, even– he certainly didn’t notice Kenny drag Tweek out of the room to help him make popcorn. 

“Nothing,” Craig says. 

“O-oh,” Butters wrings his hands, “‘cause you sure look like yer thinkin’ about somethin’.”

Craig shrugs, “Where’d Kenny get his parka?”

At that, Kenny swings into the room and throws himself onto Butters’ lap. “You like it, Craig? It was actually a gift from my precious younger sister.”

“Real shit?” Craig answers. He’s not super surprised, if anyone was going to be giving Kenny McCormick a gift, it would be his kid sister. Still, it makes him miss Tricia. A little. Not a lot. Just the way she would sometimes come sit in his room for no reason. Or how she tried to make him a new guinea pig out of a sock when Stripe died. Just little shit like that. 

Tweek, who knows about the McCormick family the same way everyone else knows about the McCormick family, says, “That’s nice,” with a smile. Most people don’t smile when they say that though. That’s just Tweek Too-Fucking-Good Tweak. And then he says, “Craig, you asshat, you’re sitting on the remote,” and Craig realizes he’d been staring at Tweek for so long he didn’t realize he accidentally butt-muted the TV. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU SO MUCH TO THE PEOPLE WHO CAME TO MY LIVE READING ON TIKTOK JUST NOW!! <333333
> 
> Every Friday at 9:30 (central time) I'll be doing a live reading of the fic on my tiktok [ bmgh.writing ] to check for grammar errors, y'all should come join us!! :DDDD
> 
> also i wanna be clear that Kenny's "You" bit is not a self-insert type thing, it's Kenny breaking the fourth wall. He is going to be my built-in trigger warning system for future chapters, and i think it would be more out of character for him to NOT be able to break the fourth wall lmaooo
> 
> as always, if u leave a meme or song this fic makes u think of, I'll put it on my tiktok w a shoutout for u (if u want a shoutout)
> 
> find me on tumblr [bmgh-writing] and tiktok [bmgh.writing] for more updates, and daily fanfic quotes
> 
> And, ofc,  
> Scream at me in the comments, nothing brings me more joy!!! :DDDDDD


	10. Painful Wednesday, December 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers, but I give you no context:
> 
> Kenny and Butters: New Gays!!!!!!! *suction cups themselves to creek like one of those fish at the bottom of the aquarium*  
> Craig and Tweek: ????? tf???
> 
> Craig Tucker's new superpower: writing Very Boring Scenarios except they're Super Fucking Dramatic For No Reason
> 
> Tweek: *heart-eyes emoji*  
> Craig: fuck shit fuck this is too soft i need to go uhh,,, idk get in a fistfight or somn-- fuck FUCK

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I'm a few days late!!! weekend got busy ^u^" but here u go <333333

When Wednesday starts, Craig feels like the color the sky chose to dress in that day: a dingy blue-gray that promises precipitation of some sort, but, ever since 7th grade, storms always miss South Park by half a mile, and Craig knows that this time, just like every other time, they’ll be denied the catharsis earned by the lack of sunlight. Tweek and Craig get up and get ready for school. Tweek hands Craig a leftover blueberry muffin from the shop and they make their lunches together (“Dude, I’m almost an adult, I can make my own lunch”). They don’t get five minutes into their walk, however, before they find Butters and Kenny waiting for them at the bus stop. 

“The fuck’re you two doing here?” Craig asks. They don’t live on the other side of the school like Clyde and Token, but they don’t live, like, right next door or anything. Besides, everyone knows they just walk to school together–since Sophomore year that’s been how it is– it’s out of character for them to suddenly include other people in their plans. 

But Butters waves enthusiastically enough to convince you he’s still who he was in fourth grade, and Kenny swings himself off his boyfriend’s shoulder and grins wide. “We wanted to walk with our new friends,” Kenny sings. 

Craig doesn’t like this. Suspicious. The two gay kids who talk to each other almost  _ exclusively _ (other than second period English in the bathroom sometimes) all of a sudden want to hang out with Tweek, Craig, Token, and Clyde? It’s kinda weird. 

Tweek doesn’t seem to see a problem with it. Which is both sweet and probably because he’s been living under a social rock since fucking infancy. 

Fuck it, beats walking to school alone while Tweek stares at him with something adjacent to anger but too close to confusion to be called either. At least Butters and Kenny make for a good buffer after… yesterday morning– whatever Craig is supposed to call that. 

He had thought his answer was very straightforward, but now, anytime it’s just them, Tweek looks at him so intently. He’ll open his mouth like he wants to say something eighteen times in a row, but nothing ever comes out. If he’s pissed, Craig wishes he would just say it. That way he could at least face it head-on. 

Despite Ms. Connie’s words yesterday, and the amicable chatter of his friends, Craig wishes he could find something, or someone, to hit. Or maybe just to hit him– maybe getting some sense knocked into him would do him good. Maybe Dad was right about that one thing.

Tweek doesn’t get it. He literally cannot wrap his fucking head around any of it. He doesn’t have time to worry that Kenny and Butters– who everyone knows never talk to anyone but each other, and the kids in the GSA on Fridays after school– might suddenly be interested in him because they want to harvest his organs. He’s got more pressing matters. Like the fact that Craig Tucker– the very same Craig Tucker that handed Tweek a cool leaf for no reason other than to calm him down and who punched Alex Morenson in the face because he was bothering Tweek and who treats Tweek like a real, human person worthy of kindness instead of a zoo exhibit– has not only reciprocated Tweek’s fromantic eelings, but also turned down dating him for  _ not one single goddamned reason.  _

What is he supposed to do about that? Is there anything he can do about that?

Mr. Fieberg calls him to the board  _ twice _ in class– apparently, Tweek is the only person in class who understands the equation and isn’t actively hiding it today– and he doesn’t so much as flinch because he’s lost enough in his head that he doesn’t even really register getting up from his seat, much less the eyes ( _ eyeseyeseyes _ ) that are watching him complete the problem with perfunctory accuracy. 

Craig doesn’t act any different than normal. If Tweek didn’t know better, he’d say Craig had forgotten that conversation entirely. He does his work normally, talks normally, makes a normal amount of eye contact–  _ jesus christ, _ he’s not even  _ sitting _ closer than normal– 

After a whole class period of careful observation, Craig is acting entirely normally. For Craig. Tweek has decided, by the time the bell that sends them to second period English screams, that normal for Craig is very different from normal for everyone else. Tweek doesn’t have a large sample size for this data, but nobody else has ever sat  _ that _ close to Tweek. Nobody else has ever put their arm around his shoulders for just one single, casual second– Craig only does it once in a while, when Tweek is walking slow and he wants him to speed up, but that’s more than anyone else. Nobody else taps out the same rhythm of the song Tweek had been humming while he got dressed this morning with the tip of their pencil. Nobody else gives him tiny, real smiles that disappear when observed like whatever particle Mr. Fieberg had been talking about. 

Maybe Tweek is reading too much into all of it. 

He is thrown back into awareness of his surroundings when Craig speaks for what might be the first time since school started this morning. “No,” he says flatly, just a bit less nonchalant than usual.

Tweek has missed whatever conversation or request incited the refusal, but Ms. Merino-Ott is happy to recap. “It’s not a lot Craig, you just have to read your assignment to your table group. If you want, I’ll walk away so I don’t hear anything, but you have to participate in class.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Craig, this kind of belligerence isn’t going to get you anywhere. You’re almost eighteen– I don’t want to call your parents.”

And Kenny McCormick and Tass Uribe– the other two members of the table group– miss it, but Craig flinches. Not so much in his body as in his face. Same way he did when he was sick and Tweek tried to set a hand on his shoulder. Ms. Merino-Ott sees it too, on account of having worked with high schoolers for about seventeen years now and observing Craig since she had him for Freshman English. 

She almost takes it back. Almost comes up with a witty retort and says “alright, who cares, you’re outta here in another semester.” It’s such a small thing. Who  _ really _ cares if he reads his short story assignment out loud? If it makes him uncomfortable, she shouldn’t push it. She feels her feet dangling over the precipitous drop at the line she just crossed.

Craig just says, “Fine. I’ll go last.” He’s hoping the bell will ring and he’ll end up not having to read his assignment with the group after all. Ms. Merino-Ott nods placatingly and leaves them alone, feeling like a guest who has overstayed their welcome in a strange place. 

The assignment was flippant. Prompt: whatever gets your creative juices flowing. Ms. Merino-Ott had planned on accidents happening and not being able to finish her unit on sonnets until Friday, but the only accident to happen was her over-cautious planning, and instead she found herself with three empty days before Winter Break. Out of her ass, she’d made up a creative writing assignment. Write one Tuesday night, workshop it Wednesday. She’s making a powerpoint in her free period about plot structure, which is going to be what they go over on Thursday, and their only Winter Break homework will be to write another short story– about whatever they want. Friday they’re just going to watch a movie, because Ms. Merino-Ott isn’t cruel enough to make seniors do actual work the day before Winter Break (besides, they’d all goof off and she knows it). So. Impromptu creative writing unit. And today is workshop day. To be fair, the kids hadn’t actually been told that they would be sharing their work with their peers when she assigned it– she’s winging this whole thing. Each person reads their short story aloud to the other three members of their table group, and the group provides both critique and a type of hype-team to help them feel safe enough to share creative work. Hopefully it’ll actually turn out like that. 

Tweek stares around his table group with eyes blinking hard to stay focussed on his immediate surroundings. Nobody has really moved. They’re all looking at Ms. Merino-Ott, and at each other, and at Craig, who is glaring at a little pile of eraser shavings like he hates it personally. 

Tass goes first by their own hesitant, shaky volition. They read an incredibly well-written story with no real plot. Just a description of a place filled with people who each lead their own interesting, boring lives. Everyone says it’s good. Nobody brings up the part where it has no plot because they don’t know Tass well enough to give them criticism– and their words are pretty so who cares about plot. 

Tweek doesn’t want to, but he says he’ll go next. He gave his story a title, because he thought it had to have a title, but now his title feels stupid because Tass didn’t have a title and–  _ fuck _ . Craig nudges his shoulder. And it  _ shouldn’t _ feel so stupidly, cozily intimate, or soft, because for all outward appearances it wasn’t, like, a gentle nudge. But Tweek’s neck still spins ninety degrees to blink owlishly at Craig like he just witnessed him sticking glow-in-the-dark stars in the sky one at a time. 

But Tweek manages to get himself back in order, coughs awkwardly, and skips his title to read the rest of his story. It’s kinda shitty, and Tweek knows it. He’s not great with storytelling, written or verbal. He’s at least that self-aware. It’s about a child running from what, at first glance, is a monster, but ends up being a figment of the kid’s imagination. Everyone tells him it’s good. Tass is polite about it, in a very distant kinda way. Kenny might mean it, but who knows with Kenny. Craig doesn’t look at him when he says it, so Tweek can’t tell if he means it. That’s alright– even if nobody meant it– Tweek might be more anxious than a methhead in a police station most days, but reading the thing out loud was scarier than the thought of someone not liking it. Who cares if they didn’t like it– Tweek’s never written anything before except that brief stint in 5th grade where he was certain that if he didn’t write things down then the past might rewrite itself constantly (to be fair, it was 5th grade, and that was around the time that Nelson Mandela was rewriting South Park’s history from the afterlife every other day). As long as he doesn’t have to share anymore, he can stay pretty calm. 

Kenny’s story is, of course, because it’s Kenny McCormick and he’s actively trying to prove everyone wrong, about everything, every day, impeccably written. It’s something with complicated, almost-run-on sentences with flawless grammar that you can lose yourself in, and it’s about a prostitute killing herself. Craig says, “That’s kinda fuckin’ dark for a class assignment.”

Kenny grins, cheshire, and says, “I wanna see if I can make Ms. Mo shit her pants a little.”

Tass, distantly polite, says it’s very… interesting. Tweek asks what made him think of something like that. Kenny shrugs and says his mom gave him the idea. Nobody asks about that.

There’s eight minutes left in class. Craig groans, and almost leans in to ask if they don’t want to talk about Kenny’s some more, so he can get out of this, but Ms. Merino-Ott is glancing their way every few seconds. Craig flips her off. Ms. Merino-Ott, already feeling a little guilty about her earlier intrusion, but also a woman with a spine built out of cement and rebar, raises an eyebrow and turns back to Wendy Testaburger’s table to ask about something in Bebe Steven’s story. 

Seven minutes left in class. 

“Fuck it, whatever,” Craig mutters, and then yanks his notebook out of his backpack and begins to read out of it. 

There’s nothing very special about the writing style– if something were to be said about it, it’s conversational. No-bullshit, matter-of-fact narration. But it’s captivating. To Tweek, anyway. He’d say he’s biased, but even the uncomfortable stilt of Tass’s shoulders relaxes into something like attentive interest as Craig unfolds a story of a girl passing out fliers for an event she knows nobody will attend. It  _ should _ , for all intents and purposes, be boring as fuck. There’s something suspenseful and captivating in it though. The girl is thirteen and afraid of something that the story doesn’t address outright. She’s clutching the fliers for the neighborhood picnic with trembling, sweaty, clenched fingers. People keep passing her and she keeps getting more desperate– she doesn’t just advocate for this event because she thinks it’s neat– she  _ needs _ this event, for some reason. Nobody is taking her wind-wrinkled, handmade fliers though– they’re all just passing her, not even glancing her way, and she feels like she’s choking on their hatred–

That’s the end of the story.

“And that’s it?” Kenny balks, “It just ends there?”

Tass nods tentatively. 

With a shrug, Craig replies, “I dunno. Didn’t finish it.”

“Why not?” Tweek asks. 

Craig shoves his notebook back into his backpack. “Didn’t know how.”

As always, Mrs. Woolley is behind schedule, and the last class before break will be their logarithms test. So, they manage another class where she tries to convince them that they’ve learned this material, and maybe four students believe her. Tweek isn’t paying attention. He’s thinking about a girl passing out fliers with the desperation of the dying. Craig isn’t paying attention either. He’s staring at Tweek. 

Stan Marsh is paying attention, but who gives a fuck about Stan Marsh. 

Ms. Connie sits with the English teachers for lunch today. Usually, fourth period is her lunch break, but she’s got Rayshawn covering her desk right now because she asked nicely and he’s a sweetheart. She tells them the latest gossip from the office– today Frankie Rubio brought the office staff cookies that they made in home ec, and she finally finished that stack of incorrectly-filed registration forms for the Spring sports this year, and yesterday Principal Morales tried to give a kid a suspension for punching another kid in the nose.

“If we were suspending kids every time they got into a fight on campus,” Ms. Connie tells the teachers, “we should be starting with that snot-nosed little asshole who keeps leaving those notes in the African Heritage Club’s self-care note box– because I know it’s Heinrich Miller, and that boy has gotten in more fights than anyone.”

The English department laughs. Tamiyoo asks who, if not Heinrich Miller, Ms. Constance “Connie” Costello saved from suspension. 

Connie giggles, and it’s the special magic of her friendship with the English department that the sound is full and a little nasally instead of tinkling and hollow like a bell, the way it is when she’s in the office. “The funniest thing, ladies, so Frankie Rubio is supposed to be bringing Craig Tucker to Principal Morales, but he’s got this six-foot  _ monstrosity _ of a kid trailing behind him–”

“You’re  _ kidding _ me, Connie–” Petra Liu gasps, glancing at Carolyn Merino-Ott. 

“Did the monstrosity have hair blonder than a beach boy?” Carolyn asks Connie.

“Well, I mean, yeah,” Connie says, taking a bite of her salad, “Why d’ya ask?” 

Carolyn smirks at the other assembled ladies of the English department– plus Tamiyoo Williams, the psychology teacher, and Connie Costello, the administrative desk attendant. 

Connie rolls her eyes, “Don’t you smirk at me, Carolyn, I want to know. What’s the scoop? This Craig Tucker was an interesting boy–”

“You tell us what happened in your office and I’ll tell you what happened in mine,” Carolyn offers.

Connie swallows another bite of salad before assenting. “So, Frankie Rubio walks these two right by my desk– like they wanted me to see them, I swear– and, we all know Frankie, so I say hi, and they say hi, and I ask what brings them through my way. Georgia had taken me to lunch–”

“Aw,” Erin Hunter coos, “ _ such _ a sweetheart.”

“Yeah,” Connie’s smile flashes brilliant and soft for a moment before she continues, “yeah,  _ so _ I was just settling back into my desk and Frankie says Craig Tucker punched Alex Morenson yesterday at lunch–”

Tamiyoo Williams interrupts to say, “What were we  _ just _ saying yesterday? That boy’s trouble.”

“Well hold your goshdarn horses, Tamiyoo!” Connie says, gesturing widely with her arms, Tamiyoo holds up her hands and resettles in her seat. “So, you ladies know how I am, and you know how I feel about Alex Morenson, and Tweek was halfway to having a meltdown in the middle of the office, so I told Frankie I’d take it from there and I told Craig and Tweek to sit down at my desk and I asked why Craig punched Alex Morenson. Wouldn’t say a word. Sat there with his arms crossed for a good five minutes. His big friend, Tweek, started trying to explain for him, and the poor kid’s voice sounded like he was talking into a fan–”

“Oh, poor thing.”

“When I had him last year, he would get like that anytime he got too nervous.”

“Well, he was certainly nervous– pulling on his hair, the whole nine yards.” Ms. Connie pauses to take another bite of salad. Lunch is halfway through and she’s only had three bites of her chicken cobb. “And Craig was staring at him– I thought he might be gettin’ angry at him about it– and he turns to me and asks me for paperclips!”

“Paperclips?”

“Oh yeah. Paperclips. Even said ‘please.’ I was so surprised I just handed him the little box I keep in my desk. And he hands the whole box to Tweek and told him to make a chain of ‘em– long as he could.”

A chortle of confused humor works its way out of Maria Albert’s nose. 

Connie nods eagerly and continues, “Then he tells me he punched Alex Morenson ‘cause the kid was– I’m quoting here, ladies– ‘being an asshole,’ and told me to do whatever I want for punishment, said he didn’t care.” She takes another bite of her salad.

Carolyn gives an impatient shake. “What did you do?”

“You ladies know what I heard that Alex Morenson say when I was getting in my car last Tuesday– I didn’t do a thing. That kid needs to get what’s comin’ to him.” Between another bite of salad, Connie continues, “And of course principal Morales felt the need to stick his nosy beak into it–”

“Oh of  _ course _ he did–”

In the student cafeteria, more than halfway through lunch, Clyde is staring at Tweek, who is staring at Craig in agonized confusion. They’ve exhausted everything Clyde and Token can think of to say– Clyde’s got nothing to report other than horrible, awful fucking boredom from history, trigonometry, and physics– Butters’s only contribution is that he’s excited for the school play that they’ll be starting once everyone is back from Winter Break– Kenny talks for as long as he can about how insufferable his third-period engineering class is, but he exhausts that after a while too– Token has only one anecdote of Eric Cartman (with whom he has second-period AP government) going on a thinly-veiled rant about how gay people are diseased and need to be eradicated… totally unprompted. The class had been discussing Thomas Payne. 

But Eric Cartman being an ignorant asshole is nothing new– the weather is more interesting, because at least that changes. So now, more than halfway through lunch, the stagnation between Tweek and Craig is palpable, and uncomfortable. Clyde is staring in the hopes that Craig will read his mind, as he does on occasion, and tell them what’s up.

It’s Token who says, “Alright, what gives. What happened with you two?”

Kenny’s eyes go flinty, and Clyde can tell he knows what went on– which means it was either physics or English– but he doesn’t say anything.

Craig also makes no comment whatsoever. He shrugs, flips Token off. 

That leaves Tweek, who wrinkles his whole face into one big question mark. Eventually, when Craig makes it clear that he’s not opening up, even under duress, Tweek asks Clyde and Token, “Did you guys  _ know _ that Craig is that good at writing?” The way Craig’s eyes snapped to look at him, almost betrayed, would make anyone think Tweek had meant something malicious by saying it so plainly. The way Tweek’s eyes were glowing with more than wonder, almost adoration, would let anyone know that he didn’t think the question could have hurt. But it clearly did, and nobody at the lunch table– with its six chairs now, and doesn’t that feel strange after years of it being just three– knows how to calm those waters or unrock that boat. So nobody says anything. Kenny looks like he might, but the words die in his cheekbones and never make it past his lips. 

The bell rings for class, and Tweek is only just beginning to realize that nobody answered his question. Clyde has never felt further from Craig– and last week he would have said he knew both of his best friends like the back of his hand. 

After school, Craig tells Tweek to walk home without him. “I got somewhere to be and your parents want help with the incoming deliveries.”

“Somewhere to be?” Tweek echoes blankly. Nothing had been said before about Craig having somewhere to be this Wednesday after school. But Tweek isn’t his keeper and he hardly knows everything about him, so he says sure, alright. See you later. His parents did want help with unloading this week’s deliveries of coffee beans, and organizing the storeroom– ever since his dad threw out his back, Tweek is the only one who can lift the giant bags of beans with anything like ease. So Tweek goes home and Craig begins to walk downtown. 

He doesn’t actually have somewhere to be. He just has a hitch in his bones and he needs someone to set it right again, and his insides feel mushy and confused and he doesn’t want Tweek to be the one to set it right. First time in fifteen years that Craig has wanted someone other than Token and Clyde to not be around when he gets his bones unsettled like they are now. 

He hangs out just next to the back door of a few different bars, hoping to catch some drunk and disorderly who’s already looking for the same thing Craig is. It’s a little early to be drunk and disorderly though. He waits a while. When his stomach starts growling he considers going into someplace to eat, but he doesn’t have any money. Maybe he could steal someone’s food– that’d be two birds and one stone, after all– but nah, he doesn’t want to show his face  _ inside _ these places. Then they might start to know him. Look at him the ways teachers have looked at him since elementary school. The way his mom looked at him, sometimes. Why does he still miss his mom? 

See, this is why he needs someone to set him right again. He can’t go home.

And here comes a lady and her boyfriend– they’re both obnoxious types. She’s screaming at him that  _ that was so embarrassing _ and he’s screaming back  _ he was looking for that fight, Jess _ , and she’s saying  _ no, you were looking for that fight _ , and Craig is thinking  _ perfect _ .

“Is this guy bothering you?” Craig asks, too-loud and six kinds of stupid. 

They respond at the same time with “Yeah, he is,” and “No, this is my wife.”

With barred teeth and a set jaw, Craig smirks, and it feels less feral than it looks, and he says, “Lovers quarrel? Marriage falling into a trainwreck?” He looks directly at the man, who was already looking for a fight, according to the woman, and spits his words between his teeth. “Let me guess, her ex-boyfriend thinks he can take you?”

It’s a perfected skill, getting someone else to throw the first punch every time, and that shit sends Craig stumbling a little. 

The wife sees Craig spit out some blood– he bit his cheek, but she can barely see that in the shadows where the streetlights don’t reach– and realizes Craig wanted this too. She gives up on convincing her husband and starts a brisk walk toward what must be her car in her cheap wedges. 

The husband whacks Craig on the side of the head, and Craig punches his chest where it meets his shoulder, but he left his torso wide open so the husband knees him in the stomach because Craig isn’t as tall as this asshole so it’s not a hard reach. Craig pushes him to the ground and starts wailing on him, but the husband gets wise and turns his head to the side, out of range, after two good hits to the cheek, so Craig’s knuckles hit old concrete and bust open bleeding. The husband shoves Craig off him and kicks him, flatfooted, in the chest, tries to kick him again but Craig blocks it with his forearm. Then the guy kicks him with the toe of his boots, right in the back, three times, and Craig realizes those are steeltoes and he does not want to be on his ass next to the drunk asshole in steeltoes, and he rolls to his stomach and bounces into a crouch and stands up and runs off and it lasted something like thirty seconds but it felt infinite and it felt fucking pure. 

When the guy is out of sight and he’s halfway back to Tweek’s, he slows to a walk. Breathing that hard makes the bruises on his back itch and throb. He can’t tell if his heart is pounding because he was running or because of the fight, still hot enough in his mind to cauterize the uneasy web of emotion that’s been wrenching him apart all day. Everything hurts, and it’s finally, finally comfortable. His mind is a carefully balanced blank. He smiles to himself and discovers a bruise is making itself at home at the intersection of his nose and cheek. Doesn’t feel broken though, even though it’s bleeding. 

It’s getting kinda late. It might have been something like 7 or 7:30 when that couple finally walked out of the bar, so maybe it’s 8 now? Craig pulls out his phone to check the time. 8:19. Tweek and his parents have probably already eaten. That’s cool– Craig can eat later, or get something from a fast food place. Shit, right, no money. One of these days he’s gonna have to get a job so he can stop mooching off the Tweaks. He already feels shitty enough– but if he focuses on the buzz of pain scorching his chest and the bootprint on his arm, the shame is less intense. 

On purpose, Craig takes the long way to Tweek’s house, so he doesn’t get there until 8:49. Maybe Tweek’s parents will already be in bed– they wake up real fucking early to man the shop for the breakfast rush, so they go to bed real fucking early too. Craig doesn’t want them to see him. To look at him the way everyone looks at him. He doesn’t want Tweek to look at him either. Tweek who jumped when Craig tried putting his arm around his shoulders that morning– Tweek who hummed some song Craig had never heard and tried to make Craig a peanut-butter and honey sandwich for lunch, with baby carrots in a tupperware container– Tweek who wanted to know more about the stupid short story he wrote for English class– Tweek who has a voice like a beehive, low and bumbling and anxious and filled with honey– Tweek who is sitting on the front porch with the porchlight on trying to figure out logorithms and failing miserably because he’s too distracted waiting to see Craig when he gets home– Tweek whose whole face falls and makes the incredible adrenaline-buzz Craig had just seconds before evaporate, and suddenly Craig feels the cold and realizes he’s just wearing a flannel and jeans and his hat is almost falling off and he shivers. 

When you’re about to get your shit kicked in by a guy in steeltoe boots, you don’t have time to think about what you’re feeling for a boy with a voice like a beehive. 

He is dragged inside, and the heat feels oppressive, even though Craig knows it’s cold because this house is always cold in the ways that make you not want to get out of bed in the morning. He is sat inside the bathroom, Tweek actually makes him sit on the counter so he doesn’t have to lean down to see him, and it feels intimate even though Craig knows it shouldn’t. Or maybe it should, given yesterday morning’s confessions. But no, it shouldn’t, because Tweek deserves better and Craig won’t take advantage of him any more than he already has. But he can have this one night of Tweek poking at the scabs wherever they have sprouted on his body– can’t he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D oof ouch his bones! :D
> 
> tbh the next Several chapters might be a bit uhhh,,,,, angsty <3 i hope u enjoy them bc they were some of my favorite ones to write (for some fuckin reason idfk XD)!!
> 
> If u wanna hear the chapters before they come out on ao3, on Friday nights at 9:30 pm central time I read the chapters out loud (to check for grammar) live on tiktok-- I'd love to see yall there!!! QwQ so far I've only gotten like 3 ppl (and those 3 have a special place in my heart and i love them to dEATH)
> 
> In personal news: Wowee my inability to discern platonic and romantic feelings sure is hitting hard <]:D
> 
> Anywhoosiewoosie, yall already know u can find me on tiktok [bmgh.writing] or tumblr [bmgh-writing] (i post more often on tiktok tbh,,,, sorry tumblr ppl ^u^"""") for more updates and daily fanfic quotes!! 
> 
> And, as always,  
> Scream at me in the comments, nothing brings me more joy!! <333333


	11. Salt in the Wound, Kick to the Bruise on Thursday, December 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers, but I give you no context!
> 
> craig: it's rotten work taking care of me  
> tweek: not to me, not if its u
> 
> Richard and Martha Tweek: our sons :D  
> Craig: im not ur kid tho??  
> Richard and Martha Tweek: Our Sons :D
> 
> Everyone in South Park, Colorado, as well as the audience: is gay  
> Eric middle-name-asshole Cartman: time to do what i do best :)  
> Everyone in South Park, Colorado, as well as the audience: please do not we are literally begging
> 
> Mr. Bloomquist when Wendy beats the shit out of a homophobe in class: I'm gonna pretend i didn't see that B)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning for eric cartman's entirety

Tweek feels the compulsive need to vomit when Craig steps into the porchlight. He’d been doing his homework on the porch because Mom and Dad were getting ready for bed and the shower always sounds like the fucking end times from downstairs, because the drain isn’t great, and he’d wanted some quiet to figure out what exactly logarithms are for– or at least how to do them— and even after they went to bed, Tweek was too lazy to go back inside. And then Craig starts walking up– Tweek can make him out even in the shadows of the unlit part of his street– and then he’s climbing the porch steps, grinning a little, to himself, kind of sharkishly, and Tweek wants to vomit because  _ who did that to him _ . 

Craig doesn’t protest when Tweek drags him into the house, although his sharkish little smile is replaced with something guilty and depressed, and he doesn’t protest when Tweek practically sets him on the bathroom counter to get a better look at him– a blazon of violence.

His face is more purple than willow-wood tan, and he’s bleeding honey-like rivulets from his nose and his teeth and the side of his forehead, just next to his temple. His flannel’s dead-hydrangea brown is deranged with sleet-dissolved grime and cuttingly-clear bootprints, from his front to his back to his arms like a pattern imposed on top of the chunky plaid. One of his fists is an incohesive bouquet of blood at the knuckles. The knee of one side of his jeans has been torn open like skin to reveal red-dyed road rash freckled with grains of concrete.

Tweek stumbles through the obligatory  _ what happened, who did this, are you okay _ – but neither he nor Craig even really register the words. For a moment, staring at Craig sitting on his bathroom counter covered in blood, Tweek is both glad his parents are in bed and convinced he should go get them. 

But what are parents gonna do? Tweek’s been better than either of them at first aid for years. Par for the course when you’re clumsy with anxious tics and a tremor and spend a lot of your day surrounded by hot or sharp objects in a coffee shop. His parents are more likely to make Craig clam up inexplicably. The urge to wake them passes. 

So Tweek moves to grab the first aid kit from the cabinet next to the showertub with shaking hands, and Craig leans against the mirror behind him. 

“D-don’t m-m-move,” Tweek tells him.

Craig crosses his arms a little more gingerly than normal and grumbles, “I’m fine. Don’t freak out.”

With practiced efficiency, Tweek counts his steps and his breaths on his way to the laundry room to grab a clean rag and on the way back too. He makes Craig scoot over and runs the rag under hot water, and when Craig tries to be a stubborn asshole about how he’s not a baby and doesn’t need anyone fawning over him, or something, Tweek slaps the side of his face that isn’t bruised with the dry half of the rag. Craig still winces. 

First, the blood. Can’t see anything about the injury with all the blood in the way. And if Tweek narrows his focus to that, considers it clinical as opposed to personal, he can manage this more easily. He’s not squeamish, but Craig’s staring directly at him with an emotion Tweek can’t place. That makes it hard to stop his hands from shaking enough to be careful. He starts with the knee– because that’s farthest from Craig’s face, so he doesn’t have to look at him while he rinses it with the rag, eases the debris out of the grooves of injury, disinfects it with rubbing alcohol, and dabs some bacitracin cream on it with the biggest bandaid in the first aid kit. 

When it comes to the torso, Craig both refuses to remove his flannel and insists that nothing is bleeding under there, so he’s fine– Tweek can’t easily argue with that (and he doesn’t want to seem like he just wants to see Craig shirtless– because he doesn’t– this is strictly clinical, professional, medical). But now all that’s left is his hands and his face, and either one feels too intimate to touch. Goddammit he shouldn’t have even started this because now he has to finish it and everything still feels like a tidal wave of emotion that Tweek can’t  _ begin _ to process because  _ fuck _ Craig Tucker likes him back and he  _ still _ said no for a reason that Tweek can’t even wrap his head around.

“Tweek, it’s not as bad as it looks– shit do you not like blood?” Craig’s got his hands on either side of Tweek’s face, saying, “Shit, ok, you get out, I’ll clean this up–”

“No!” Tweek’s voice cracks on the word, and he clears his throat. “I-I, uh– I d-don’t f-freak out at blood.”

“Then why are you still stuttering?”

“Because I’ve got a stutter.”

“Yeah, one that only comes up when you’re stressed.”

“Will you shut up and let me do this for you?”

And whatever dickweed retort Craig was cooking up is lost in his lungs when Tweek pulls one of his hands off of his cheeks– the one covered in blood– and starts rinsing it with the warm, damp rag. The source of injury seems to be his knuckles, which are scraped raw and torn up. Tweek tries to be gentle, but Craig’s other hand is gripping the bathroom counter tight so he hurries.

“We don’t really have any bandages this shape,” Tweek murmurs, digging through the first aid kit. 

Craig’s voice is choked and awkward, “I’m not gonna die.”

“If you don’t cover it until the scab forms then it’ll get infected!” Tweek cries, “What if the infection t-turns into sepsis and you d-d-die!?” It’s only when he looks Craig straight in the face that he sees his face is red like cherry cough syrup on the dining table, and the blush is infectious. “I-I’ve done this a hundred times– lemme just find the tape.” He keeps his eyes on the web of medical tape and gauze until the tissue-paper ridges of flesh unearthed on Craig’s fingers are safely wrapped. 

But now comes the face. Shit. Tweek can’t look him in the eyes but there’s no way not to when he’s gently– gentler than that, he’s doing his best not to hurt him– wiping the blood off of his eyebrow, and his chin, and his lips. 

“Your nose isn’t broken,” Tweek says.

Craig says, “I know.”

“Why is your mouth bleeding? Did you b-bite your tongue?” Tweek asks.

Craig answers, “No, inside of my cheek.”

“The cut on your forehead isn’t bad. The bruising is gonna be worse,” Tweek says.

Craig says, “I figured. The cut’s just from the guy’s wedding ring.”

Tweek puts a bright blue bandaid over the cut above his eyebrow, just next to his temple. Then he realizes Craig is sitting on the bathroom counter and Tweek has stepped close enough to be standing between his legs and  _ oh shit _ and Tweek hops back far enough to bonk his head on the wall and Craig breathes like he hasn’t breathed in days and Tweek giggles with a lightheaded kind of giddiness and says “O-okay, let’s ge-g-get– grab you an ice pack or seven.”

Somehow, it’s 9:36 already. 

Craig’s face is still cherry-cough-syrup-on-the-dining-room-table red, but Tweek has managed to distract himself out of self-consciousness by talking about how he’s gotten pretty good at first aid with cuts and scrapes and burns because he’s a clumsy idiot in a coffee shop– and he shows off his newest addition to his bandaid collection on the side of his palm where he let it rest against the roasting machine for a little too long this afternoon. 

The sound of a stifled laugh erupts from behind Tweek and he turns to see Craig with a hysteric little smile accented by tears. He’s crying. Craig is  _ crying _ . 

Tweek actually yelps– quietly, at least. He doesn’t know where this is coming from– okay, probably it’s from the fact that Craig, for some reason, willingly went out and got his ass kicked– but why  _ now _ ? Why after the danger has passed and he’s safe and taken care of? Why while Tweek is pulling ice packs out of the freezer in the dark? But, for whatever reason, he’s crying, and Tweek slowly, hurriedly, the way you might try to pick up a possum playing dead in the middle of the road, wraps Craig in his arms. That makes it worse, and he starts crying harder, but both fists work their way into Tweek’s shirt so he can’t back up. 

More than not knowing what to say, Tweek’s whole brain fucking short circuits. What is he supposed to be doing here? What can he say to comfort someone when he knows  _ not one single goddamned thing _ about what’s wrong? He can’t honestly say things are going to be okay, because maybe they aren’t. He can’t say he’s safe, because what if he isn’t. He can’t say it’s alright, because it probably isn’t. Not if Craig fucking Tucker is crying.

But only one of them can be breaking down at a time, so Tweek just holds him in the kitchen for a minute. 

The next morning, the note Tweek’s parents leave him on the kitchen counter says they are leaving this afternoon, before the boys get home from school. They have left the shop all closed up, with a sign saying their hours won’t be regular again until after Winter Break– they tell Tweek any hours he wants to pick up during Break are his own choice, but any money the store makes in those shifts is fully and completely Tweek’s to do with as he chooses. 

(If this was last year, they would have just left the store open and told Tweek to close up whenever he felt overwhelmed. Because last year he wouldn’t have had anything else to do while they were gone. But it’s not last year, and Tweek has friends to hang out with now, which is what makes them feel comfortable going on this trip at all. The money arrangement is their way of an apology for leaving with such short notice, and without him– even if he does hate planes and warm weather.)

The note also says they love him, and they’ll call him at the layover at LAX and when they land in Rosarito, and to have fun with his friends. The note tells Craig that he can stay as long as he likes, and that they expect to see more of him when they’re home in January. The note tells both Craig and Tweek that they will call them on Christmas to reveal the location of their hidden Christmas presents. 

Tweek reads the last two parts aloud to Craig, who is throwing peanut butter and honey and bread into two separate sandwiches and shoving them aggressively into plastic sandwich containers.

“Why’d they get me a present?” he grumbles, “I’m not their kid.”

Tweek doesn’t have an answer because, technically, Craig is right. Richard and Martha Tweek have never gotten their son’s friends any Christmas presents before– although in the past that was always because Tweek never had any friends with which to set that precedent. 

In the end, while Craig is stuffing baby carrots into reusable plastic pouches, Tweek answers, “I dunno, ‘cause they like you?” Of course, this makes Craig’s face go stonier than before, angry in a real way, almost vindictive. 

With lunches made with hateful affection by Craig, and breakfast muffins provided from the coffee shop leftovers in the cabinet, they begin the walk to school.

They’re still surprised, although Butters argues they shouldn’t be, when Kenny and Butters are waiting for them at that bus stop again. 

While they walk, and Kenny laughingly tries to goad Craig into telling him ‘what the fuck happened to your face, dude,’ it occurs to Tweek that they could have taken the bus today. Him and Craig could have taken the bus yesterday too. It’s not a long walk, but it’s cold as anything. 

It’s Thursday, December 17th, one week exactly before Christmas, and it’s warm for a Colorado winter, but it’s  _ still _ a Colorado winter. The high today is 40 degrees. They could have taken the bus and been a heck of a lot warmer for it. 

But if they’d taken the bus, Butters wouldn’t have slipped on the road salt that’s stuck onto the sidewalk and bonked his forehead on a lightpole and said “Fudgenuggets” like it’s a curse word, and they wouldn’t have all laughed. If they’d taken the bus, Craig wouldn’t have walked slow enough to let Butters and Kenny get far ahead so he could ask Tweek quietly, softly, if he wanted to borrow his jacket– ‘you’re shivering, dipshit, why didn’t you wear your parka?’ If they had taken the bus they would have had to pass Eric Cartman, who sits at the front every day, and Craig probably would have punched him and started another fight. Or maybe Kenny would have beaten him to it– everyone knows that Kenny McCormick will use any excuse to get at Eric Cartman. They’ve hated each other since that whole thing in seventh grade, even if nobody  _ really _ knows why. Maybe Stan Marsh or Kyle Broflovski, but they still hang out with Eric Cartman, so they’re not talking. 

But Tweek does know that the walk is worth it, because he walks into Mr. Fieberg’s first period physics class wearing Craig’s jacket, and Kenny is laughing at them both for it. 

Mr. Fieberg notices Craig’s face– it would be much harder  _ not _ to notice when a student who had been perfectly healthy and unmarred yesterday walks in looking like a splatter-painted canvas– but doesn’t comment. Mostly because if a teacher wanted to comment every time Craig Tucker walked in looking like he got into a fight, they would actually lose enough instructional minutes over it to be significant. Mr. Fieberg just glances at Tweek, then at Kenny, and then he wanders off to talk to Danny Chon before starting the class. 

Ms. Merino-Ott doesn’t mention is either. She’s still a little self-conscious after yesterday– threatening to call Craig’s parents had definitely been a Bad Thing, even if she doesn’t know why, so she doesn’t look twice when he comes in bruised to shit. She just delivers her powerpoint about crafting plotlines and character arcs and tries to ignore Kenny McCormick's side comments detailing the most poignant examples of character arcs that he has gleaned from pornhub. 

Mrs. Woolley scrunches up her face when they walk in. She asks if Craig wants to go to the nurse. He says no. Then she asks if he wants to go to the counselor. And he says no again. And Mrs. Woolley wrings her thin little hands and says alright, but she’s always there to talk, and Craig resists the urge to flip her off until he’s sitting in his seat and her back is turned. 

And then lunchtime. Craig drags his feet the whole way there. He makes every excuse– says he has to pee, spends forever putting his shit in his locker and getting his lunch out, walks at the pace of a fucking snail– and it’s making Tweek a little bit crazy. Not that lunch is an Event or anything, but Tweek  _ hates  _ being late. Makes him nervous. 

“E-everyone else is pro-probably already there,” he stammers, a little annoyed. They’re right at the swinging doors to the cafeteria, but Craig doesn’t want to enter. Craig shrugs. “L-let’s  _ go _ already, Craig.”

“Trouble in gay paradise?” comes the mocking voice of Eric Cartman from behind. 

As always, Kyle Broflovski tries to mediate, “Dude, leave it,” he reasons, “the principal won’t listen either way.” Stan Marsh opts to roll his eyes and scroll through his phone instead of getting involved. 

And there they are. The Mean Girls of South Park High School. Always together, always starting shit. The staff mostly turns a blind eye because of everything that happened in seventh grade, but the students collectively hate them for the same reason one hates a black mold infestation. Persistent. Annoying. Hazardous. Gross.

Craig doesn’t initially react, and Tweek is doing his best to be somewhere else, mentally. 

Eric Cartman doesn’t like that they didn’t react, and he doesn’t like Kyle trying to tell him what to do, so he pushes. “Y’see, Stan,” Cartman addresses the only person who isn’t openly opposed to this fight, and who doesn’t look up from his phone, “this is what happens when a couple of gaywads get together– it doesn’t end well for anyone. First Kenny, now these two– it just doesn’t end. Eventually the goddamn homosexuals will take over the whole school. That’s why we have to–”

“Fuck it,” Craig mutters, “let’s go, dipshit.”

“What was that?” Cartman taunts, “Fairy wants to fight?” 

“Sure,” Craig says, and he comes with a left hook so fast that it genuinely unbalances Cartman, despite his size advantage. 

Cartman grins, malicious and planning. Tweek knows that Eric Cartman never starts a fight he doesn’t want, or one that he can’t finish. Cartman brings up one knee and slams it into Craig’s stomach. 

And the strangest thing happens. Craig just… falls over. He doesn’t get back up. One part of Tweek clams up and goes rigid, but the part of him that’s in control of his arms and legs goes right for Eric Cartman’s fucking throat. A childhood spent in boxing classes comes back like riding a bike and, after a minute, Tweek feels somebody dragging him off of Eric Cartman– it’s Kyle Broflovski saying  _ dude, chill, you’re gonna– _

And then Kyle shuts up because Kenny is wandering out of the cafeteria, and he surveys the scene and sends his foot into Kyle’s stomach and grabs Cartman by the collar of his jacket and headbutts him and steps on his hand and punches him right in the nose. 

“This is a hate crime,” Cartman whines, “the gays are trying to kill me.”

Stan Marsh rolls his eyes again and asks, “Are we fucking done here? Have you made your point, Cartman?”

Cartman grumbles, “I’m telling Principal Morales that the gays are trying to kill me.”

Kenny cackles, high and manic. “Was this for attention!?” he snaps, “Still, Cartman? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Cartman snaps back, “ _ No _ , this is about getting homosexuality banned in South Park! Come on, Kyle.”

And then they walk back the way they came, still too entrenched in their own little world to recognize anything outside of themselves. 

“A-a-are they actually trying to ba-b-ban being gay?” Tweek asks while he and Kenny catch their breath.

Kenny waves a hand, “I mean, maybe, but they can’t get far. Half the school is gay, dude.” He rubs at his nose– there’s a bruise growing just between his eyebrows from the headbutt– “Anyway, what the fuck happened to you, Fucker?”

Craig replies inexpressively from the floor, “He got me good.”

“C-c-can you st-st-stand u–”

“Breathe, Tweek.”

And Tweek does. Then tries again. “Can y-you stand up?”

“Sure.” And Craig tries. He gets almost to his elbows before he falls back down. 

“ _ Jesus– ngh– ch-christ, are you d-d-dying!? _ ” 

“I’m fine, Tweek. Don’t freak out. Kenny, can you, like, I dunno, do something?”

And Kenny would love to, but he’s also a little unnerved by the part of this where Craig can’t get up, so he hesitates. He looks at You with a worried expression, and he murmurs to You, “I don’t know why he isn’t getting up– why isn’t he getting up?” He asks You, “Could you read ahead and tell me?”

And, as luck would have it, Butters exits the cafeteria next. As he opens the door, he’s mumbling, “Now just where did Ken run off to,” and as the door closes behind him he’s saying, “Well there you are, I was gettin’ worried you’d be doin’ somethin’ stupid without me, and look, I sure was right. You three’re all kinds of messed.”

First, Butters tells Tweek that everything is going to be fine, and to try to breathe, then he makes sure Craig isn’t dead, then he checks on Kenny’s forehead, and then he says, “Why ain’t nobody helpin’ Craig off the floor?”

Craig immediately says, “Because I don’t need help,” and proves himself wrong by not even justifying his body with an attempt.

Butters forcibly pulls Craig to his feet, and then they all walk into the cafeteria together. 

Nobody mentions the fact that it definitely  _ looks _ like these three got into a fight– because it’s Craig Tucker, and it’s expected– but they stare a little because now there’s also Kenny McCormick with a bruise on his forehead and Tweek Tweak with scratches on his neck and face. 

Clyde and Token, however, groan before Butters can even finish telling them that there was a fight in the hallway. 

“Tweek, what the fuck did that to your neck?” Token asks, “It looks gnarly.”

Tweek hadn’t realized that he had gotten scratched at all, and Kenny answers for him, “Kyle Broflovski’s disgusting fingernails. The guy never trims them, just bites them a lot.”

Clyde feigns a gag, then moves on to ask, “And Kenny, is that bruise from another of the Three Musketwats?”

With a grin, Kenny nods, “Eric Cartman.”

Craig glares at Clyde and Token, trying to cow them into silence. It doesn’t work because they’ve known him for too long. 

“Going by the bandaid,” Token deduces, “Eric Cartman didn’t do that to your face.”

“Fuck off, Token.”

“Dude,” Clyde whines, “you can’t keep doing that. Go to the gym or some shit, like a normal person!”

“Do what, fellas?” Butters interrupts. He has no clue what they’re talking about, and neither, to an extent, do Tweek or Kenny. 

Token grumbles something about  _ delinquent son, bullshit _ , and then says, “Stop me when I’m wrong, Craig. You were… pissed about… something, I don’t know; so you went out and found someone willing to kick your ass, but underestimated just how badly they would kick your ass; you dragged yourself home– er,” Token gets uncharacteristically self-conscious over that slipup and quickly corrects, “to Tweek, I guess, and he patched you up– thank you for that Tweek– but, and this is just a wild shot in the dark, you didn’t tell anyone how badly that guy you picked a fight with kicked your ass, and that’s having repercussions now.”

“Congratu-fucking-lations, Token,” Kenny giggles, “that’s the most sarcasm I’ve ever heard from you.”

“How many times do you think Craig has done this over the years?” Token deadpans.

Even Clyde is stonefaced for once. “How bad is it actually, Craig?” he asks.

Craig shrugs. 

Clyde rolls his eyes, trying for playful if serious won’t work, and says, “Don’t think I won’t pull your shirt off like a dirty toddler in the middle of the cafeteria,” and he pushes out of his chair and starts yanking on the edge of Craig’s t-shirt collar. Everyone laughs, and Butters finally rediscovers his appetite and begins to dig into leftover chicken-fried-rice. Kenny steals the carrots out of Butters’ food. Tweek nibbles his sandwich– made by Craig this morning. Token sips his capri sun and tells Clyde and Craig to  _ knock it off, stop acting like hooligans _ . Clyde says  _ yes, mom _ . Craig flips Token off, but he’s smiling a bit more than he was before lunch.

Mrs. Herrick sees the scratches on Tweek’s face and neck and gasps aloud, asking him if he’s alright, if he needs to see the nurse, does he need any help. Tweek says he’s fine, thanks, and goes back to his exploration of beginner’s optical illusions.

Ms. Porter sees Craig, bruised and walking funny, and sighs heavily, but doesn’t press it, just delivers her lecture on Oscar Wilde’s plays. 

Tweek arrives second, after Wendy Testaburger who stays in her seat between fourth and fifth period, to Mr. Bloomquist’s class. Mr. Bloomquist is still on his phone, but he peeks over the edge of the wallet-case when Wendy gasps and meets Tweek where he’s standing in the middle of the room.

“Tweek, what  _ happened _ to your face?” she demands.

“U-um, it’s kinda a long story–”

“No, I mean who did you fight.”

“Oh, Kyle Broflovski and Eric Cartman.”

Mr. Bloomquist chuckles to himself, and pretends that the humor was found in his phone screen. 

Wendy frowns. “Those fucking dickwads,” she grumbles, “I’m gonna have to talk to Stan about those two. They’re not redeemable people but he just goes on and on about how they’re the only friends he’s ever had, and change is hard, and something about Kyle– yanno, I’m convinced I’m sharing my boyfriend with Kyle Broflovski, which wouldn’t be so bad if my idiot boyfriend wasn’t sharing  _ his _ boyfriend with Eric Cartman. God, it’s all so messed up–”

“Wendy, since when was Tweek your couples’ counselor?” Craig asks. He slipped into the room about thirty seconds ago and has been listening to the tail end of her rant. Tweek is too polite to tell Wendy that he both doesn’t know what to do about her boyfriend and actively dislikes him. Craig seeks to be as impolite as possible on a daily basis, and therefore has no trouble telling Wendy Testaburger to leave Tweek alone. Even if she does make Craig nervous once in a while. 

While Wendy sits back down next to Allison– who is only marginally less of a livewire and only marginally more dangerous– and continues telling Allison about how much she hates all men. Mr. Bloomquist drops his phone into his desk drawer and rolls his wheely desk chair over to Tweek and Craig.

He does not stand up from the chair, but he does ask, “Alright, what happened to you two?”

“Huh!?” Tweek twitches.

“Nothing,” Craig says flatly. 

Mr. Bloomquist grumbles, and swivels in his chair, but presses the issue in an uncharacteristic show of concern. “Did you two fight– come on, what happened?”

Craig and Tweek glance at each other. Tweek chuckles at the thought of fighting Craig. Craig says, “We didn’t fight. Eric Cartman and Kyle Broflovski picked a fight before lunch.”

Mr. Bloomquist does a double-take at each of them. He doesn’t laugh, but he grins. “ _ You two _ ?” he clarifies, sounding a little excited and a little flabbergasted, “Eric Cartman picked a fight with  _ you two _ about that? I thought for sure he’d go after the McCormick kid, or his boyfriend– what was he? Stotch? Yeah, Stotch–”

“Why do you a-ask?” Tweek wants to know.

The bell rings. Class is supposed to start, but most of them are enthralled watching Wendy and Allison discursively eviscerate one of the kids who never shuts up about Alexander Hamilton and WWII, Darius– Darius mentioned something about gay marriage being unnatural and both girls lost their minds. 

Mr. Bloomquist, content with the class being occupied for a minute, leans closer, conspiratorial, and explains– “About seven minutes ago I get an email from Principal Morales. Eric Cartman and Kyle Broflovski and Stan Marsh come waddling in, covered in bruises, saying they’re victims of a hate crime. They say a bunch of homosexual kids jumped them for being straight. Of course, Principal Morales isn’t stupid, so he told them to go back to class or go home, and to stop picking fights, but it’s also  _ Eric Cartman _ , and we all remember what he did five years ago, so Morales sent out an email asking teachers to give their fifth-period classes a talk about acceptance.”

Craig can’t help but mutter, “You’re shitting me.”

Mr. Bloomquist gives him a look about the language, but continues with a nod. “I won’t be doing that, because I think it’s stupid and nobody is checking– and I’ve got tenure, what are they gonna do about it?” He takes a breath, and another, and then looks at Craig and Tweek and laughs again, “But,  _ man _ is it funny to know that Eric Cartman picked a fight with Craig Tucker to try and prove that he was a victim of a hate crime.”

Then he swivels his chair again and rolls away to break up the fight on the other side of the room. Allison has Darius by the throat and Wendy is giving the synopsis of queer history to anyone who’s listening to her over Darius’s death throes. Mr. Bloomquist tells them to knock it off and they do, sort of. Allison stops trying to kill Darius anyway. 

And the lesson continues as if Eric Cartman didn’t intentionally get himself beat up to try and prove that homosexuals are a danger to society, and as if he didn’t convince Darius of the same, and as if Mr. Bloomquist didn’t willfully ignore Darius getting his ass beat for believing that. No, currently it is time to learn about the inception of the electoral college and how useless and stupid Mr. Bloomquist believes it to be. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :DDDDD tysm to everyone who tuned into my live on tiktok!!! :DDDD
> 
> who is ready to continue the pain train for another eight chapters?? <3
> 
> fr fr tho the comments I've been getting are literally so fucking sweet i love yall so much QwQ
> 
> yall already know u can find me on tiktok [bmgh.writing] and tumblr [bmgh-writing] and if u comment a meme or song this fic makes u think of I'll shout u out <333 (also it would literally make my day)
> 
> and, as always,   
> Scream at me in the comments, nothing brings me more joy!!!! :DDDDDDDD


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